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Authors: Glendon Swarthout
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ceremoniously.
Through the windshield Cotton and Goodenow stared at him. From the bed, Shecker and the Lally brothers stared at him.
As though onstage, Teft stood self-consciously in the headlights. On his cap the silver eagle glittered. He began with a vagabond grin. "How about that?" he appealed. "I just never noticed the gauge. Believe it or not, I've bagged cars before and driven them dry and no sweat. I just wired a fresh one."
He lost his grin. "Destroyed," he said. "This really destroys me."
He gave up. Spreading his long arms he flapped them against his long legs in contrition. He opened his jacket to expose his chest.
"So I now offer myself. As a human sacrifice to the Gas God."
And with a low bow and a martyred expression he draped himself over the white altar of the hood. "You may now cut out my heart," he said, "and eat it."
Suddenly the stage went dark. Teft vanished. Cotton had pushed the headlight knob. It was the most unfortunate thing he could have done. For the night came down upon them. They cowered before it, and before the implications of an empty tank. Except for the ticking sounds of the engine cooling, they sat in a kind of stranded silence, hushed by the dark and this new, blabbering proof of their ineptitude.
"Oh, I am so sorry," Teft said. "I am just Christfully sorry."
9
"Sorry? You're sorry!" Cotton blasted. "One hell of a lot of good that does!"
Shecker and the Lally brothers jumped over the tailgate and Goodenow slid across the seat and out of the cab. But his lash cracked after them.
"Dings! Dings! Wheaties was right—we are dings! We can't do anything right and we've got no damn excuse for living and—"
He choked in midsentence. Curious, they gathered at the cab window. But he had merely gone into another of his catatonic fits. Cotton sat upright at the wheel, his jaw outthrust under the army helmet, one hand grafted to the gearshift as though he were driving the truck himself, as though by motive power of will and energy generated by rage he could refuel it and propel it onward. His mother had been married three times and divorced three times and was now keeping a man ten years younger than she. Her favorite among the four was her second husband, a rich, grandfatherly manufacturer of ball bearings, for it was his generous settlement upon their divorce which gave her the house in Rocky River and the membership in the Cleveland Yacht Club and made her wealthy in her own right. The manufacturer was certainly John Cottons favorite, for he belonged to a fishing club in Quebec, and once, when John was ten, took mother and son up there after trout. They flew in from North Bay, Ontario, by float plane and landed on the lake near the cabin. The next morning John and his stepfather went fishing, the boy trolling with a Daredevil, the man paddling the canoe. One after another the boy fought and netted Quebec reds, brook trout so-called because the coffee color of the water stained their undersides a vivid crimson. They drifted near a cow moose and her calf breakfasting on lilypads. It was a serene and thrilling morning. This was the best place he'd ever been, the boy blurted suddenly, and the best time he'd ever had, and he wished it would never end .
His stepfather smiled. "You're a jimdandy, Johnny. I wish I could keep you."
"Will you and her get divorced?" the boy asked.
"Probably. She needs a younger man. And money even more, her own money."
"I wish you wouldn't."
With the paddle his stepfather carved deep into the black of the lake. "Perhaps she'd sell you to me."
"She prob'ly would" the boy said.
When they returned to the cabin his mother, already bored with Quebec, wanted to fly back to Cleveland in the morning. Her son and husband objected. She made a scene and won.
That night ten-year-old John Cotton took a hammer and an awl, swam naked through icy water to the plane moored offshore, held his breath, ducked, and hammered a hole in the bottom of a float.
In the morning
Through the windshield Cotton and Goodenow stared at him. From the bed, Shecker and the Lally brothers stared at him.
As though onstage, Teft stood self-consciously in the headlights. On his cap the silver eagle glittered. He began with a vagabond grin. "How about that?" he appealed. "I just never noticed the gauge. Believe it or not, I've bagged cars before and driven them dry and no sweat. I just wired a fresh one."
He lost his grin. "Destroyed," he said. "This really destroys me."
He gave up. Spreading his long arms he flapped them against his long legs in contrition. He opened his jacket to expose his chest.
"So I now offer myself. As a human sacrifice to the Gas God."
And with a low bow and a martyred expression he draped himself over the white altar of the hood. "You may now cut out my heart," he said, "and eat it."
Suddenly the stage went dark. Teft vanished. Cotton had pushed the headlight knob. It was the most unfortunate thing he could have done. For the night came down upon them. They cowered before it, and before the implications of an empty tank. Except for the ticking sounds of the engine cooling, they sat in a kind of stranded silence, hushed by the dark and this new, blabbering proof of their ineptitude.
"Oh, I am so sorry," Teft said. "I am just Christfully sorry."
9
"Sorry? You're sorry!" Cotton blasted. "One hell of a lot of good that does!"
Shecker and the Lally brothers jumped over the tailgate and Goodenow slid across the seat and out of the cab. But his lash cracked after them.
"Dings! Dings! Wheaties was right—we are dings! We can't do anything right and we've got no damn excuse for living and—"
He choked in midsentence. Curious, they gathered at the cab window. But he had merely gone into another of his catatonic fits. Cotton sat upright at the wheel, his jaw outthrust under the army helmet, one hand grafted to the gearshift as though he were driving the truck himself, as though by motive power of will and energy generated by rage he could refuel it and propel it onward. His mother had been married three times and divorced three times and was now keeping a man ten years younger than she. Her favorite among the four was her second husband, a rich, grandfatherly manufacturer of ball bearings, for it was his generous settlement upon their divorce which gave her the house in Rocky River and the membership in the Cleveland Yacht Club and made her wealthy in her own right. The manufacturer was certainly John Cottons favorite, for he belonged to a fishing club in Quebec, and once, when John was ten, took mother and son up there after trout. They flew in from North Bay, Ontario, by float plane and landed on the lake near the cabin. The next morning John and his stepfather went fishing, the boy trolling with a Daredevil, the man paddling the canoe. One after another the boy fought and netted Quebec reds, brook trout so-called because the coffee color of the water stained their undersides a vivid crimson. They drifted near a cow moose and her calf breakfasting on lilypads. It was a serene and thrilling morning. This was the best place he'd ever been, the boy blurted suddenly, and the best time he'd ever had, and he wished it would never end .
His stepfather smiled. "You're a jimdandy, Johnny. I wish I could keep you."
"Will you and her get divorced?" the boy asked.
"Probably. She needs a younger man. And money even more, her own money."
"I wish you wouldn't."
With the paddle his stepfather carved deep into the black of the lake. "Perhaps she'd sell you to me."
"She prob'ly would" the boy said.
When they returned to the cabin his mother, already bored with Quebec, wanted to fly back to Cleveland in the morning. Her son and husband objected. She made a scene and won.
That night ten-year-old John Cotton took a hammer and an awl, swam naked through icy water to the plane moored offshore, held his breath, ducked, and hammered a hole in the bottom of a float.
In the morning
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