The World Made Straight (24 page)

Travis cranked the engine and pulled back onto the hardtop. He drove fast and when Lori told him to slow down he ignored her. He went off the road and onto the shoulder, gravel spraying
behind them like shrapnel. Lori began crying, and he drove even faster. When they got to her house he kept the motor running as she got out and ran inside. He jerked the chain off his neck and threw it out the window.

Travis drove toward Marshall, taking the curves fast, the truck window all the way down now. He wanted to feel his speed, try to outrun every bad thing that had happened that night. As the tires squalled coming out of another curve, a raccoon appeared, eyes peaking through its black robber's mask at the loud rush of light bearing down upon it. The raccoon paused a moment, then scampered off the blacktop. A damn good thing too, Travis thought, because he wasn't slowing. Soon he passed the city limits sign. A yellow caution light flashed but he went on through without braking. Travis headed toward his friends, guys who'd been satisfied with the way he'd been and didn't hide things from him, and he couldn't get there quick enough.

He spotted Shank's Plymouth at the Gulf station and pulled beside it. Shank and Wesley sat on the Plymouth's front hood. For a few moments he sat in the cab, arms locked and hands on the steering wheel as if it were a divining rod that had yet to disclose what he searched for.

“I didn't figure a high-school graduate would want to mess around with us delinquents,” Shank said when Travis got out.

“Go to hell,” Travis said irritably.

“What's got your feathers all ruffled?” Shank asked.

Travis ignored the question.

“You got any beer?” he asked. “I got money to pay for it.”

“Lord help us,” Shank said. “Six months ago I was buying
from your roommate Leonard and now you're coming to me. Bad enough you two turned that trailer into a schoolhouse. I expect revival services next the way you two are headed.”

Shank nudged Wesley.

“What you reckon, Wesley?”

“I figure as much,” Wesley said. “Soon you all will be speaking in tongues, maybe catch some big old satinbacks and handle them like those folks up in Wolf Laurel.” Wesley slid off the hood. “But I won't be joining you. The only snake I'm handling is this one I'm getting ready to piss out of.”

As Wesley disappeared behind the station, Shank turned to Travis.

“So you still ain't answered what's bothering you, though I expect Lori has something to do with it.” Shank lowered his voice. “You ain't knocked her up, have you?”

A bitter laugh welled up in Travis's chest and stomach. He choked it back down.

“No,” Travis said.

“Well, that's a relief. Just keep that rubber on and you'll be fine.”

“I don't need to worry about a rubber,” Travis said, the whole evening's frustration in his voice. “Lori says she won't do it till we're married.”

Shank whistled softly.

“Son, you're going to have the biggest set of blue balls in history.”

Travis took Mrs. Triplett's five dollars from his pocket. “So you got anything or not? If you ain't got beer I'll take some pills, long as it ain't those damn black beauties.”

“We got two six-packs on ice in the trunk. Got a pint of Rebel Yell too. Me and Wesley don't mind sharing with our old buddy.” Shank nodded at the bill. “But we'll need more than old Abe there to get us some serious medicating.”

“I got a whole paycheck in my billfold.”

“That'll buy us some good pills,” Shank said.

“But not black beauties,” Travis reiterated.

“No, we're getting you some quaaludes. You're strung tight enough already.”

Shank grinned, punched Travis in the shoulder as Wesley rejoined them.

“Travis is acting like himself again, Wesley. He's ready to raise some Cain.”

“I ain't just going to raise some Cain,” Travis said, trying to put some of the old strut back in his voice. “I'm going to raise a whole bumper crop. I got catching up to do.”

“Listen at him,” Shank said, his hand smacking the hood. “We best get a rope and hang on if we're to stay with him tonight.”

“Damn right,” Travis said.

“Well, let's go get it,” Shank said. “Wesley knows a place that will take care of everything we're needing.”

“Only if you got some real money,” Wesley replied.

“Our boy here's got so much he can't hold it all in his wallet,” Shank said, nodding at the bill in Travis's hand. “He just pulled five dollars from his front pocket like it was nothing more than a gum wrapper.”

“Want me to drive?” Travis asked.

“No, we can take the Beast,” Shank said, walking around to the trunk.

“Shotgun,” Wesley said, and slid in the front seat while Travis crawled into the back. Shank got in, the six-packs clutched in his hands. As soon as he sat down, he began pulling cans from the plastic rings.

“Here,” Shank said, handing Travis two cold cans of beer. “Those ought to mellow you out some.”

Shank gave two to Wesley and kept two for himself, then set the other six-pack on the floorboard. The metal was slick and cold from being iced. Travis jerked the tab and heard the satisfying pop. He drank the beer in two long gulps and threw the can out the window.

Shank turned right at the next stop sign, and soon they crossed over the French Broad. Wesley shoved an Allman Brothers tape into the player and turned up the volume, the speakers on the panel behind Travis's head. All four windows were down. The Plymouth's headlights swept the trees on each curve, darkness regathering, closing behind them as though where they'd once been was forever gone. Maybe it is, Travis thought. And if that's so the hell with it.

He drank the second beer slower, felt the alcohol start to glow inside him. The music that had hurt his ears now seemed not loud enough and he shouted as much to Shank, who turned the volume up until the speakers shook. Travis leaned his head against the speakers. The opening bass lines of “Whipping Post” surged through his body. He thought about his father and how he hoped the bastard really was behind in
his farmwork, because then the old man would realize how much Travis had done during spring planting. He imagined his father begging him to come back to the farm and help get the planting done, Travis telling the old man to kiss his ass.

He'd tell Lori the same thing if she called, tell her there were other girls he could date. One of the cashiers had been flirting with him for weeks and he knew for a fact she'd put out. Knew as well she wouldn't be telling him how to live every moment of his life.

Travis threw the second can out the window.

“Need me another one,” he yelled.

Wesley turned.

“We ain't got but twelve beers for the three of us.”

“Give me another beer or I'll crawl up there and get it myself,” Travis said.

He liked the way he sounded, tough and loud enough that Shank and Wesley couldn't ignore him.

“Give him a beer, Wesley,” Shank said. “Travis gets everything he wants tonight. We still got that pint if we need it.”

Wesley handed him another can. Shank took a curve hard and Travis slid against the door and spilled beer on himself. Shank and Wesley laughed.

“Damn it,” Travis shouted. “I look like I pissed myself.”

Travis finished the third beer, throwing the empty can into the front seat. Everything that had happened only a couple of hours earlier seemed years in the past now. He closed his eyes and let the music and the alcohol completely envelop him. It was like being inside a watery cocoon. When the Allman Brothers tape ended, Travis leaned forward.

“Put in that Skynyrd tape and forward it to ‘Free Bird,' Travis said. “And get me another beer.”

Shank laughed.

“You heard the man, Wesley.”

Travis opened the can and took a long drink, then leaned back and listened to Gary Rossington's slide guitar. He knew musicians called their guitars axes, and now Travis thought he understood why, because the guitar's hard sharp notes seemed to split open his skull so the music could pour in and wash everything else out of his head. When Ronnie Van Zant began singing, Travis sang along. It was like the lyrics had been written just for how he felt this night.

HE'D DRUNK FIVE BEERS BY THE TIME SHANK SLOWED AND
they bumped up a dirt road. Travis had no idea where they were and didn't much care. Just riding around was good enough, the way the cool air blasted against his face, the music charging through him. He wanted to tell Shank and Wesley they were the best buddies a fellow could ever hope for and they should make a pact to be best friends the rest of their lives.

The Wildebeast jerked to a stop and Travis tumbled out of the backseat and onto the ground. He got up laughing and aimed himself toward the porch. Enough light shone from the farmhouse's front room to see the steps, the shadowy features of a car and a truck off to the left. The place was vaguely familiar and Travis wished he could see better. They stepped up on the porch.

“Who lives here?” he asked as Wesley knocked once and opened the door.

“Your rescuers,” Shank said. “You're getting a chance to thank them by supporting their place of business.”

Travis stepped back from the door.

“Whoa,” Shank said, grabbing him by the arm.

Travis tried to rip free but lost his balance and fell.

“Help me, Wesley,” Shank said, and grabbed Travis by the upper arm.

They led Travis into the front room and didn't let go of his arms until he was wedged between them on a sagging red-velvet couch. Carlton Toomey sat opposite them in a recliner, a bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in his massive hand. Hubert sat in a ladderback chair in the corner, attentively trimming his fingernails with a match end. A sixteen-ounce can of Schlitz Malt Liquor rested on the chair's arm. The way Travis's legs felt heavy and wobbly at the same time told him his body was drunk, but his mind felt clear as spring water.

“Him and his girl had a lover's spat,” Shank said to the elder Toomey. “It's got him all out of sorts.”

Carlton eased back in the recliner a little more.

“I can see that.”

Shank pulled the last three beers from the plastic rings, handed Travis one.

“Maybe this will put some color back in you.”

Travis pulled the tab and took a sip, then let the can rest on his upper leg. He could feel its condensation dampen the denim. He glanced at the door, mapped his way past the woodshed
to the creek. If he could get that far, they'd never find him in the dark.

Carlton Toomey stared intently at Travis, shook his head. “I can't get over how you don't look nothing like your daddy.”

“Maybe it was Leonard knocked his momma up,” Hubert said. “And that's why he's living with him now.”

Travis wished he had his rifle. He imagined how if he did they'd stop ragging him real quick. He lifted the can and drank deeply. His stomach lurched and he felt a sour rising in his throat but choked it back.

“I think we got him riled a bit,” Hubert said.

“I got to piss,” Travis said, and got up slowly so the room wouldn't spin.

“I'm going with you,” Shank said when Travis headed to the front door instead of the bathroom. “You ain't about to sneak off on us.”

They went out on the front porch and unzipped. Travis looked up at the stars as he made water. There'd been a hymn called “Will There Be Any Stars in My Crown?” he'd sung at church. He tried to remember the words, something about waking with the blessed in a mansion.

The alcohol was taking hold again, in a good, calming way. He could hear inside his head its faint mellow thrumming. A soothing yellow light beveled the edges of his vision. Making a run for the creek made less sense. If the Toomeys were going to do something besides make sport of him, they'd have already done it. Travis realized that maybe they were a little afraid of him. After all, he could still tell what really happened
up here last summer to someone besides Leonard, could tell it to men who wore badges.

He and Shank zipped up and went inside. He lifted the beer and took a long swallow. Wesley had five one dollar bills in his hand.

“Give me ten dollars,” Wesley said, and Travis did so. Wesley handed the money to Carlton.

“I always like it when a person pays up front for his drugs,” Carlton said, stuffing the bills in his pocket.

“What are we getting?” Shank asked.

“Quaaludes,” Wesley said.

“Get these boys their pills, and get that chicken out too,” Carlton Toomey told his son. “All this socializing is making me hungry.”

Hubert went into the middle bedroom, came back, and handed his father a crumpled brown paper bag. Carlton counted out the pills as Hubert lifted a cardboard bucket from the refrigerator. He laid the bucket of chicken on the coffee table, some paper plates and napkins as well. Carlton placed the pills on the coffee table, then put two pieces of chicken on a paper plate.

“Go take this to her,” he said to Hubert.

“You all got a girl back there?” Shank asked.

Carlton nodded.

“Let him take it,” Hubert said, motioning toward Travis. “I bet she'd like that. Might even want him to visit with her awhile.”

Shank grinned at Travis. “Damn, boy. You might get all your problems solved tonight.”

Shank and Wesley pulled Travis up from the couch and Hubert handed him the plate.

“Go get her, stud,” Shank said.

Travis walked slowly down the hallway. Something bothered him. He thought it had to do with Lori but there was something else as well, something that wouldn't quite show itself. At the doorway he stopped and saw the single bare yellow bulb on the ceiling, the Venetian blinds covering the window, the same ladderback chair Carlton Toomey had sat in that afternoon last August. He stepped into the room and when he saw her on the bed he was surprised only for a moment.