Steinbeck’s Ghost by Lewis Buzbee Page B

them.
    On the ridge of the Gabilan foothills closest to Bella Linda Terrace, three black silhouettes stood looking over the valley, toward the Santa Lucia Mountains, toward Corral de Tierra. The figures were as still as stone, but they were definitely human. No movement at all, just watching.
    He skidded the bike to a stop.
    All the not- thinking he’d done on the bike ride, all the not- thinking he’d pedaled into himself, vanished. He knew who these figures were, and he knew it immediately. There was a Steinbeck story, “Flight,” where a man was being chased by sheriff ’s deputies through the Santa Lucia Mountains near Big Sur, and all during the chase, whenever the man looked up, he found three black figures standing on ridge tops high above him. The man knew they were not chasing him, they were simply watching him.
    Travis knew that the figures on the ridge below Fremont Peak were Steinbeck’s Watchers. And that story, “Flight,” was in
The Long Valley
, which he had in his backpack.
    He gazed up at the Watchers. They were not looking at him. They were looking far away, into the west. Then they turned in unison and disappeared from the ridge, as if they’d been waiting for Travis to arrive.
    Travis knew what he had to do, if he could just get his feet to cooperate. He was going to go home, turn on all the lights, and watch some mindless television until he fell asleep. Maybe even beg his parents for a Gamebox.
    His parents!
    He pumped all the way home and, just as he was about to cruise into the driveway, heard a car honking behind him. Travis tore into the house before his parents could say anything, grabbed the note he’d left for them off the kitchen table, and slammed into the bathroom.
    The note had said he was at Hil’s, and that wouldn’t work anymore. He had to think of something else—he was just out riding around Bella Linda Terrace. That’d do. His parents believed him, but they weren’t happy he had been out after dark. They gave him the “better be more careful” lecture. Standing there in the kitchen with them, he really wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t. It was a lie, a stupid lie at that, and he had to stick to it.
    After a late dinner, Travis and his parents watched a silly cop show together, but he couldn’t relax, couldn’t get everything out of his head. He kept wanting to talk to his parents, tell them everything that had happened. But just like over the weekend, he kept his mouth shut. How did you even begin to tell your parents about ghosts and Watchers? So he watched some cops shoot at guys and drink coffee and drive recklessly: TV.
    Later, in his room, he sat at his desk for a long time and looked out at Salinas, a pearl- string of lights along the highway, and at the barely visible outline of the Santa Lucias, to where the Watchers had been watching.
    He got into bed, cracked open
The Long Valley
, and turned to the story called “Flight.”

FIVE
    A FTER SCHOOL ON FRIDAY, HIL AND TRAVIS COM-PLETELY SCOPED OUT THE CAR WASH SCHEME. Hil was an excellent planner, and between the two of them, they had, they imagined, everything covered. Hil would contact the Old Stage shopping center, two blocks from the entrance to Bella Linda Terrace, and get permission to use the corner of their parking lot at the intersection of Natividad and Boronda. He would arrange to have a banner made and, with his father, figure out a way to raise it: Car Wash—Save Our Library—$5.00, and the big sun. Travis would collect the other materials, the towels and hoses and soap. He figured his parents would help with this.
    When they were done planning, they walked around Bella Linda Terrace and hit every house with a flyer. Travis noticed something he’d not seen before. Every house in Bella Linda Terrace had a satellite dish—including his own—and every dish pointed to the same spot in the sky. The houses looked as if they were scanning the galaxy for news from the Mother Planet. Travis pointed