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Authors: Gary Paulsen
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ones. He only knew of them because he'd once watched a boy who had one try to make it into a hot rod,
“Sure,” he said. “Clinton, sure. How far is it?”
“Upwards of thirty mile,” the woman said. She was round. Not fat but round. “Too far to walk in a day but I'll give you a ride most of the way there if you like. My name is Hazel.”
“Thank you,” the boy said, and opened the front door and got in, thinking, How can she have gone past the Plymouth sitting out in the field and not seen it? Sitting there with a body in it and not seen it? But before they'd gone a mile he found out why.
The woman sat, looking straight ahead, a round head in the front seat, and she didn't talk and she didn't look left or look right. She concentrated on her driving, grasping the wheel with an almost frantic grip, both hands, and when she got the car up to thirty miles an hour she stopped accelerating. Thirty it was, thirty it would be as they ground along.
The boy leaned back in the seat, resting his bare back on the fuzzy cloth—it seemed to be woven with dust built into the fabric—and watched the fields crawling by the side window but didn't see anything. His eyes burned in the wind coming through the open window and he thought, I have nothing but crap for luck. I make somemoney and the law takes it away. I get a ride and… He thought suddenly of the Hungarian man and how he looked, dead, and felt ashamed for complaining about his luck. If he'd lost the money at least he'd gotten away from the law and hadn't been sent home. Home? he thought. He had no home. Not anymore. He'd never had much of one but now it was all gone—from his thinking and, he hoped, from his memories. His luck wasn't that bad: he'd gotten away firom the law and wasn't hurt in the wreck and he was moving….
Moving slow, he thought, looking out of the cqrner of his eye at the lady and at the speedometer seemingly glued on thirty. But moving. It could have been worse.
He closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment—or so it seemed—and when he next opened them the car was stopped and when he looked out he saw he was parked in front of a small farmhouse and the old woman was no longer in the car:
He opened the door and stood away from the car and looked around. It had once been a functioning farm, but years earlier. There was an ancient barn that needed paint and something toprop up the sagging roof. A brick silo with a wooden roof half gone. Some wooden sheds and an outhouse and a small white house that was the only thing in good repair. The farmhouse looked freshly painted and seemed to have an almost new roof and a neady painted picket fence and a neatly mown rectangle of grass in front. Out back was a garden with clean rows of lettuce and carrots and beans. Everywhere else, out around the house and by the barn and sheds and lying out in the fields around the house, were parked old pieces of farm machinery. Most of it dated back to horse-drawn days—cultivators, swatters, corn and potato planters, seed drills, trip rakes and John Deere mowers. The boy had watched his uncles use horses and knew something of working them and that some farms still used them in the winter when tractors were hard to start, but this equipment was so old the wheels had wooden spokes and iron tires, so old the wood was rotting.
“You're up.”
The boy turned and saw the old woman coming out of the house carrying a work shirt.
“You seemed tired and I saw the blood on your shirt and figured you for a nosebleeder so I let yousleep. Figured you needed rest. I took your shirt to wash.” She walked while talking and was in front of the boy and handed him the shirt. “You didn't have clothes with you so I found a shirt. This is one I…had. You take it and cover yourself. I'm cooking some food and I won't feed a person unless he's properly covered.”
She had the strangest way of talking in clipped sentences that never seemed to want an answer. The boy put the shirt
“Sure,” he said. “Clinton, sure. How far is it?”
“Upwards of thirty mile,” the woman said. She was round. Not fat but round. “Too far to walk in a day but I'll give you a ride most of the way there if you like. My name is Hazel.”
“Thank you,” the boy said, and opened the front door and got in, thinking, How can she have gone past the Plymouth sitting out in the field and not seen it? Sitting there with a body in it and not seen it? But before they'd gone a mile he found out why.
The woman sat, looking straight ahead, a round head in the front seat, and she didn't talk and she didn't look left or look right. She concentrated on her driving, grasping the wheel with an almost frantic grip, both hands, and when she got the car up to thirty miles an hour she stopped accelerating. Thirty it was, thirty it would be as they ground along.
The boy leaned back in the seat, resting his bare back on the fuzzy cloth—it seemed to be woven with dust built into the fabric—and watched the fields crawling by the side window but didn't see anything. His eyes burned in the wind coming through the open window and he thought, I have nothing but crap for luck. I make somemoney and the law takes it away. I get a ride and… He thought suddenly of the Hungarian man and how he looked, dead, and felt ashamed for complaining about his luck. If he'd lost the money at least he'd gotten away from the law and hadn't been sent home. Home? he thought. He had no home. Not anymore. He'd never had much of one but now it was all gone—from his thinking and, he hoped, from his memories. His luck wasn't that bad: he'd gotten away firom the law and wasn't hurt in the wreck and he was moving….
Moving slow, he thought, looking out of the cqrner of his eye at the lady and at the speedometer seemingly glued on thirty. But moving. It could have been worse.
He closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment—or so it seemed—and when he next opened them the car was stopped and when he looked out he saw he was parked in front of a small farmhouse and the old woman was no longer in the car:
He opened the door and stood away from the car and looked around. It had once been a functioning farm, but years earlier. There was an ancient barn that needed paint and something toprop up the sagging roof. A brick silo with a wooden roof half gone. Some wooden sheds and an outhouse and a small white house that was the only thing in good repair. The farmhouse looked freshly painted and seemed to have an almost new roof and a neady painted picket fence and a neatly mown rectangle of grass in front. Out back was a garden with clean rows of lettuce and carrots and beans. Everywhere else, out around the house and by the barn and sheds and lying out in the fields around the house, were parked old pieces of farm machinery. Most of it dated back to horse-drawn days—cultivators, swatters, corn and potato planters, seed drills, trip rakes and John Deere mowers. The boy had watched his uncles use horses and knew something of working them and that some farms still used them in the winter when tractors were hard to start, but this equipment was so old the wheels had wooden spokes and iron tires, so old the wood was rotting.
“You're up.”
The boy turned and saw the old woman coming out of the house carrying a work shirt.
“You seemed tired and I saw the blood on your shirt and figured you for a nosebleeder so I let yousleep. Figured you needed rest. I took your shirt to wash.” She walked while talking and was in front of the boy and handed him the shirt. “You didn't have clothes with you so I found a shirt. This is one I…had. You take it and cover yourself. I'm cooking some food and I won't feed a person unless he's properly covered.”
She had the strangest way of talking in clipped sentences that never seemed to want an answer. The boy put the shirt
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