Part 15 (1/2)

”Good idea.”

I leaned over the seat for the cooler. We each had half of the remaining sandwich, then took turns taking bites from an apple.

”Amy Levin,” he said. ”Tillman Crane and Amy Levin on Interstate 80.”

”Getting philosophical, are you?”

He reached over and laced his fingers through mine.

”Maybe we should tell people my name is Amy Smith or Amy Johnson or something.”

”You really are nervous about this, aren't you?” He pulled his fingers away, then put his hand on top of mine and curled it into a fist; he held my hand captive under his, as if it were a tiny animal that might dart away.

”I don't know,” I said. ”It's just-families. G.o.d, isn't it hard enough without having to contend with someone's family? If we were going to California I'd be nervous, too. I'd probably be more nervous.”

He laughed. ”You have a lot of faith in me, I see.”

”That's not how I meant it,” I said. In fact, I'd spent a good deal of time imagining just such a meeting: the two of us sitting side by side in my parents' living room, a convivial discussion of something other than the sorry state of the nation, during which my father would not raise his voice. I'd present Tillman to them as a kind of gift qua challenge: Look here, it would say, his parents didn't march on Was.h.i.+ngton or wear sungla.s.ses for three days when Martin Luther King was shot. And he hunts. But I was afraid that, once I was back at home, some part of me would be in their camp with them, looking for the bright side.

Tillman let go of my hand, returning his to the wheel. ”It's just my brother,” he said. ”You have nothing to be nervous about.”

”I know,” I said. ”I guess I'm just nervous that I'll be nervous.”

”Amy, Amy, Amy,” he said. ”Where did I find you?”

”At a boring party.”

We were silent for a while. Then Tillman said, ”I don't think it's so hard. Am I missing something? I thought we were having fun.”

”Fun?” I said. ”Fun? Is that the point?” I pulled my feet up onto the seat and wrapped my arms around my knees. ”I've often wondered.”

TILLMAN'S PARENTS HAD died four years earlier, when Tillman was twenty-seven, within four months of each other. He was flip with me about it at first, saying his mother had died of boredom causing his father to die of anger. Finally, in a bar one night, I told him that I thought it was strange he hadn't told me what really happened. I said it quietly, eyes downcast-I didn't want him to miss that he'd hurt me by not telling me. ”You want the gory details, do you?” he said, and I blushed; but he didn't give me a chance to respond. He said in a rush that his mother had had a surprising, fatal stroke when she was sixty-one, and that after that his father just gave up on life. ”Packed it in,” he said. ”Threw in the towel.” I asked him what he meant and he took a sip of beer and gave me a look of such intense melancholy that I was certain I'd made a terrible blunder, one he could never forgive. In the moment before he spoke again I wanted to take it all back, to be someone other than myself-not just someone who could stop herself from prying, but someone who wouldn't even want to know.

”He sold the hardware store,” Tillman said, holding out his thumb so he could enumerate his points, ”where, incidentally, my brother worked.” He pointed his index finger. ”He auctioned off every piece of furniture in the house with the exception of one chair and one table and the f.u.c.king TV.” He added his middle finger. ”He gave away all of my mother's cooking stuff-to a little hog pit of a restaurant that has since gone out of business.” His fourth finger. ”He burned her clothing”-at this he raised his eyebrows and gave me a brief, horrible smile-”and then he sat around in his bathrobe, watched TV, and ate nothing but cold cereal and canned vegetables for three and a half months.” Tillman picked up his beer and drained it.

”And?” I said reflexively.

”And he died. He died. He died.”

”I'm so sorry,” I said lamely. ”That's awful.”

Tillman picked up his empty gla.s.s and began tapping it on the table. ”True love,” he said, shaking his head. ”Can you beat it?” Abruptly he stopped tapping the gla.s.s and stood up. ”Let's go,” he said. ”This place is a pit.”

Since then we'd talked little of his family, and because of that I'd told him little of mine. I did know a few things about his brother: that he lived in an apartment over a shoe store; that he didn't have a regular job but earned his living working for farmers in the spring and summer and being a handyman and sometimes a mechanic in the fall and winter; that he'd been married and had a seven-year-old daughter who lived with his ex-wife up in Rapid City, South Dakota. After lunch I'd learned that he had a girlfriend named Patsy, although about that Tillman could have been kidding. Did he have a dog? I wasn't sure, but I thought he might.

When we got to Barneyville it was nearly eleven; we'd been driving for days, weeks. ”The strip,” said Tillman, waving his hand at the car lots and fast food places we pa.s.sed. These gave way to the kind of main street I'd been expecting-a row of small, sad businesses with names like Fin and Fur Pet Store and Dew Drop Inn. At the corner where we turned there was a bridal shop in whose window four or five mannequins with teased-looking plastic hair modeled bridesmaids' gowns in unnatural shades of violet and pink. There was no bride.

Half a block down the street Tillman pulled into a narrow alley and drove back to a little clearing where a toylike dirty blue pickup truck was parked. ”Well, he's here,” he said. ”That's a good sign.”

We got out of the car and unloaded our stuff, moving slowly because of the stiffness in our muscles. When everything was lying on the gravel Tillman took a few steps backward, leaned his head back, and yelled, ”CA-SEY!”

A moment later someone was thundering down a long flight of stairs, and the back door opened. Out came Casey-a slightly older, slightly stocky Tillman. He had the same unruly light brown hair, the same droopy mustache; he was even dressed just like Tillman, in old jeans and a flannel s.h.i.+rt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms of a nubby white long-underwear unders.h.i.+rt. The resemblance was remarkable, but it didn't surprise me as much as the fact that he wasn't sixty-five years old and wearing a bathrobe; I'd been expecting Tillman's father.

”How do,” he said to Tillman, and they shook hands.

”Not too bad.” Tillman was grinning broadly-a bigger smile than I'd ever seen on him. ”This is Amy.”

Casey held out his hand and we shook. ”Hi,” I said and smiled at him; he didn't quite meet my eye. ”It's nice to meet you.”

Casey picked up our suitcases. ”You see that Carson's is all closed up?” he said to Tillman. ”Stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

”I saw.”

Tillman grabbed the gun and the cooler, leaving me the Scotch. It was my gift to Casey, and I was regretting a little my choice of Cardhu, in which my father indulged himself once or twice a week. (It had been his suggestion; I'd thought it better than my mother's, ”a nice basket of jams and mustards.”) I was regretting even more the green and white striped paper and the blue ribbon with which I'd adorned the bottle. As I followed Tillman up the stairs I briefly considered stripping off the gift wrap, but I couldn't think of anywhere to put it.

We entered the apartment through the kitchen. A big black dog came bounding toward us, jumping up on Tillman and licking his face.

”What a beautiful dog,” I said in my stupidest girl-voice.

”Perry!” Casey said, and the dog sat.

”Good boy,” Tillman crooned, scratching the dog behind the ears. ”Good, good boy.”

Casey led us into a very small room off the kitchen-the floor was covered almost entirely by a double-bed mattress, made up with brightly flowered sheets and a pea-green blanket. ”Great, Case,” Tillman said. ”Perfect. Thanks.”

”Thank Patsy,” Casey said. ”It's all her mother's stuff.” He set down our bags and edged by me to get back into the kitchen. ”Want a beer or something?”

Tillman smiled at me and touched my hip as he followed Casey. ”Great,” he said. ”Perfect. Thanks.”

I left the Scotch on the mattress and stood in the doorway. Casey got two beers out of the refrigerator. He opened them both and handed a bottle to Tillman. Tillman turned to me. ”Aim?” he said, not something he'd ever called me before.

”I'd love one.”

Casey set his beer on the stovetop. ”Sorry,” he said to the floor. ”Excuse my manners.” He got another beer out of the refrigerator, but rather than handing it to me he set it down and opened a cabinet for a gla.s.s.

”Oh, that's OK, Casey,” I said. ”I don't mind the bottle.”

He shrugged, closed the cabinet, and handed me the beer. ”Suit yourself,” he said.

We stood there sipping. Perry circled me and I reached a cautious hand out to pet him. Finally Tillman said maybe we could go sit down, and Casey pushed off from where he'd been leaning and led us into the other room. It evidently doubled as his bedroom and living room: in addition to a few easy chairs grouped in front of a TV, in the corner there was a platform bed on legs about five feet tall. Underneath the bed were a primitive-looking bureau and, hanging from a pole which ran from one leg to another, four or five hangers for clothes.

Tillman crossed the room and bent to look at the arrangement. ”Pretty nice,” he said, turning back to look at Casey. ”Been a busy beaver, hey?”

Casey smiled. ”Look at this.” He went over to the bed and fiddled with something on the underside of the platform, then swung a small ladder down. ”Magnets,” he said proudly.

Tillman motioned me over. ”See how he's got this rigged up?” He demonstrated how the ladder swung up to rest against the platform when it wasn't in use, then swung back down so Casey could climb into bed.

”I didn't know you did carpentry,” I said to Casey.

”I just fool around with it.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.