the building was a sign, “Pump Station #1.” Ronnie propped the body against the rear of the shack, facing away from the road, and returned to the car for Cal’s belongings, which he set around the body just as Cal might have arranged them. Then he carried the towel and the bedspread back to the car and sat behind the wheel, shivering. After a few bleak moments he started driving slowly past wide black fields, weedy ditches and the occasional dwelling. The road then climbed a steep ridge, and as he approached a more settled area, with farms on either side of him, he began to feel even more nervous. If people spotted his Caddy, they might tie the two things together when they discovered Cal.
Just then a car pulled out of a driveway a hundred yards ahead and sped down the road away from him. Ronnie slowed his car to a crawl and stopped. To his right, where the car had come from, stood a two-storey farmhouse, large barns and outbuildings, and acres of fruit trees. In the silvery glow of moonlight, everything seemed so neatly arranged, so lovingly tended, he could scarcely imagine the kind of people who might live there. Geniuses, perhaps, adepts at the art of living, whose time on the planet displayed a wholesome perfection that made his own life, and the lives of those with whom he travelled, seem a blighted, shadowy existence.
After pausing there a few minutes, he put his car into gear once more and crept past the farmhouse, slowly picking up speed as he went. Turning a wide curve in the road, he saw a bridge up ahead of him, and on the bridge, a young man sitting on the supports, as though he were preparing to jump. That image spoke to him as clearly as any he had ever seen in a painting. He thought: The boy is troubled. The boy is the answer to my problems.
It was always this way. Like boxing or soccer, like the circus even, Ronnie saw the music business as a way out, a bridge across, a road up from whatever dead-end, broken-down, hard-luck life you might have been born to. Withquick feet or quick hands, with tricks or licks or derring-do, one could make a bright new shiny life for oneself without the blessing of family or fortune or a fine education. These were natural callings for the downtrodden, the oppressed, the ostracized. And this boy looked very much in need of an open door.
Ronnie was playing a dangerous hunch in making himself visible, but he brought the car to a halt in the middle of the bridge and stepped out. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I hope you are not contemplating anything so rash as jumping. I am afraid I am not the ablest of swimmers.”
The boy looked over his shoulder, and with a weak smile said, “Don’t worry. I’m just sitting here thinking. Besides, I’d break my neck before I drowned. There’s only six inches of water down there.”
Ronnie closed the door and folded both arms across the roof of the car. “Seems a chilly spot to be sitting on a night like this. Surely there are more comfortable places to ponder the mysteries of life. Is there somewhere I can drop you?”
“Chicago’s what I’d like. But I guess I should just head home.”
“Ah,” Ronnie said, “home. It’s funny, but you rather had the look of a young man with another destination. I spotted you from a fair piece down the road there, and the moment I set eyes on you, I had the sense—don’t ask me why—that you were saying a goodbye of some sort. And I suppose it reminded me of myself at your age, taking my last fond look at home before I headed down to London.”
The boy snorted good-naturedly and swung his legs over the bridge to face him. “You’re from England?”
“Scotland, in fact, but everywhere really, Scotland, England, Ireland, New York. The world, as they say, is my playground.” He paused a moment to consider once again the wisdom of what he was doing. Then he stepped around his car and offered his hand. “My name is Ronnie,” he said, “Ronnie Conger. And you
Just then a car pulled out of a driveway a hundred yards ahead and sped down the road away from him. Ronnie slowed his car to a crawl and stopped. To his right, where the car had come from, stood a two-storey farmhouse, large barns and outbuildings, and acres of fruit trees. In the silvery glow of moonlight, everything seemed so neatly arranged, so lovingly tended, he could scarcely imagine the kind of people who might live there. Geniuses, perhaps, adepts at the art of living, whose time on the planet displayed a wholesome perfection that made his own life, and the lives of those with whom he travelled, seem a blighted, shadowy existence.
After pausing there a few minutes, he put his car into gear once more and crept past the farmhouse, slowly picking up speed as he went. Turning a wide curve in the road, he saw a bridge up ahead of him, and on the bridge, a young man sitting on the supports, as though he were preparing to jump. That image spoke to him as clearly as any he had ever seen in a painting. He thought: The boy is troubled. The boy is the answer to my problems.
It was always this way. Like boxing or soccer, like the circus even, Ronnie saw the music business as a way out, a bridge across, a road up from whatever dead-end, broken-down, hard-luck life you might have been born to. Withquick feet or quick hands, with tricks or licks or derring-do, one could make a bright new shiny life for oneself without the blessing of family or fortune or a fine education. These were natural callings for the downtrodden, the oppressed, the ostracized. And this boy looked very much in need of an open door.
Ronnie was playing a dangerous hunch in making himself visible, but he brought the car to a halt in the middle of the bridge and stepped out. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I hope you are not contemplating anything so rash as jumping. I am afraid I am not the ablest of swimmers.”
The boy looked over his shoulder, and with a weak smile said, “Don’t worry. I’m just sitting here thinking. Besides, I’d break my neck before I drowned. There’s only six inches of water down there.”
Ronnie closed the door and folded both arms across the roof of the car. “Seems a chilly spot to be sitting on a night like this. Surely there are more comfortable places to ponder the mysteries of life. Is there somewhere I can drop you?”
“Chicago’s what I’d like. But I guess I should just head home.”
“Ah,” Ronnie said, “home. It’s funny, but you rather had the look of a young man with another destination. I spotted you from a fair piece down the road there, and the moment I set eyes on you, I had the sense—don’t ask me why—that you were saying a goodbye of some sort. And I suppose it reminded me of myself at your age, taking my last fond look at home before I headed down to London.”
The boy snorted good-naturedly and swung his legs over the bridge to face him. “You’re from England?”
“Scotland, in fact, but everywhere really, Scotland, England, Ireland, New York. The world, as they say, is my playground.” He paused a moment to consider once again the wisdom of what he was doing. Then he stepped around his car and offered his hand. “My name is Ronnie,” he said, “Ronnie Conger. And you
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