Read Online In Reach by Pamela Carter Joern - Free Book Online
Authors: Pamela Carter Joern
Ads: Link
pushed his John Lennon rimless glasses up on his nose. He wore a tattered Grateful Dead T-shirt and cutoffs. “You got the big gun, don’t you?”
“I hope you brought some long pants. You’ll need them for riding.”
Jason didn’t answer, just heaved his pack into the rear seat of the black Jeep and climbed into the front. He looked over at his dad and stifled a laugh. Dave had exchanged his stockbroker image for the Marlboro man: tight Levi’s, white yoked shirt with pearl inlaid snaps, snakeskin cowboy boots. His belly was shelved on a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island. Jason glanced in the backseat; sure enough, there was a cowboy hat, black with a pheasant feather sticking up from the band.
“Don’t you think you’re going to be hot? It’s July. Must be a hundred degrees.”
“That’s why you wear this stuff.” Dave sped across two lanes of traffic. “To keep the sun off.”
“Mom sent sunscreen,” Jason said.
Before they got outside the city limits, Dave had laid out his plans for the trip. They were on a buffalo hunt. He’d set it all up from his bachelor apartment. He called Cabela’s, a big Western store out in Sidney where Nebraska bumps into Colorado. A guy named Shorty knew a rancher down by Lewellen who had wild buffalo on his rangeland.
“I drove over yesterday from Chicago,” Dave said. “I’d have called you, but I figured you were busy.”
“Yeah,” Jason said.
They rode in silence. Interstate 80 stretched out like film off a reel. Jason stuck the earphones that hung around his neck into his ears and tuned into his music. He liked the old masters, Coltrane and Davis, guys he was sure his dad had never heard of. His dad had lived through the Sixties without even changing his hairstyle. Once, when Jason asked him how come he hadn’t paid attention to Dylan or the Stones or the Dead, his dad said he guessed he’d listened to the wrong radio stations. “Besides,” he said, as Jason should have known he would, “I had to work my way through school.”
Eventually Dave tapped on Jason’s arm to get his attention. “Why don’t you park that thing?” He motioned to Jason’s Walkman and hitched his thumb toward the backseat.
Jason took off the earphones, but let them rest in his lap. He turned to look out the window. Miles and miles of cornfields. A few trees sheltering scattered farmhouses. All the way from Omaha to the panhandle, where his dad was from, the road stretched flat and endless, a line extending into nothing. There were no traces of the family left out there. His dad had taken him to Reach once when he was younger. Jason’s parents were still married then, and they’d stayed together in the downtown Deluxe Motel, six ramshackle side-by-side units. A sign in the manager’s office boasted of running water and TV in every room. “This is where I grew up, Son,” his dad had said. “This is the town that made a man out of me.”
Dave drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. After a few more miles, he cleared his throat. “How’s your mother?”
“Mom’s fine.” Neither turned their heads away from the road in front of them.
“Thought maybe she’d say hello this morning.”
Sometimes Jason couldn’t believe his father. Where he got off. “She was at work.”
Dave flipped a cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. With practiced moves, he tucked a Marlboro between his lips, found the lighter in the bin between the seats, lit the cigarette, and slid the package home. He was blowing out the first puff as Jason rolled down his window.
“I got the air on,” Dave said.
“Yeah, well, you’re contaminating it.” The wind blew his longish blond hair across his face. One end caught the corner of his mouth; another smacked his eye. Still, he kept his window down.
Dave took two more long draws. “Shit.” Dave stubbed out hiscigarette in the ashtray. “In my day, it was the kids who smoked, and the parents who told them not to.”
“Maybe
“I hope you brought some long pants. You’ll need them for riding.”
Jason didn’t answer, just heaved his pack into the rear seat of the black Jeep and climbed into the front. He looked over at his dad and stifled a laugh. Dave had exchanged his stockbroker image for the Marlboro man: tight Levi’s, white yoked shirt with pearl inlaid snaps, snakeskin cowboy boots. His belly was shelved on a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island. Jason glanced in the backseat; sure enough, there was a cowboy hat, black with a pheasant feather sticking up from the band.
“Don’t you think you’re going to be hot? It’s July. Must be a hundred degrees.”
“That’s why you wear this stuff.” Dave sped across two lanes of traffic. “To keep the sun off.”
“Mom sent sunscreen,” Jason said.
Before they got outside the city limits, Dave had laid out his plans for the trip. They were on a buffalo hunt. He’d set it all up from his bachelor apartment. He called Cabela’s, a big Western store out in Sidney where Nebraska bumps into Colorado. A guy named Shorty knew a rancher down by Lewellen who had wild buffalo on his rangeland.
“I drove over yesterday from Chicago,” Dave said. “I’d have called you, but I figured you were busy.”
“Yeah,” Jason said.
They rode in silence. Interstate 80 stretched out like film off a reel. Jason stuck the earphones that hung around his neck into his ears and tuned into his music. He liked the old masters, Coltrane and Davis, guys he was sure his dad had never heard of. His dad had lived through the Sixties without even changing his hairstyle. Once, when Jason asked him how come he hadn’t paid attention to Dylan or the Stones or the Dead, his dad said he guessed he’d listened to the wrong radio stations. “Besides,” he said, as Jason should have known he would, “I had to work my way through school.”
Eventually Dave tapped on Jason’s arm to get his attention. “Why don’t you park that thing?” He motioned to Jason’s Walkman and hitched his thumb toward the backseat.
Jason took off the earphones, but let them rest in his lap. He turned to look out the window. Miles and miles of cornfields. A few trees sheltering scattered farmhouses. All the way from Omaha to the panhandle, where his dad was from, the road stretched flat and endless, a line extending into nothing. There were no traces of the family left out there. His dad had taken him to Reach once when he was younger. Jason’s parents were still married then, and they’d stayed together in the downtown Deluxe Motel, six ramshackle side-by-side units. A sign in the manager’s office boasted of running water and TV in every room. “This is where I grew up, Son,” his dad had said. “This is the town that made a man out of me.”
Dave drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. After a few more miles, he cleared his throat. “How’s your mother?”
“Mom’s fine.” Neither turned their heads away from the road in front of them.
“Thought maybe she’d say hello this morning.”
Sometimes Jason couldn’t believe his father. Where he got off. “She was at work.”
Dave flipped a cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. With practiced moves, he tucked a Marlboro between his lips, found the lighter in the bin between the seats, lit the cigarette, and slid the package home. He was blowing out the first puff as Jason rolled down his window.
“I got the air on,” Dave said.
“Yeah, well, you’re contaminating it.” The wind blew his longish blond hair across his face. One end caught the corner of his mouth; another smacked his eye. Still, he kept his window down.
Dave took two more long draws. “Shit.” Dave stubbed out hiscigarette in the ashtray. “In my day, it was the kids who smoked, and the parents who told them not to.”
“Maybe
Similar Books
