Read Online The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews - Free Book Online Page A

ahead into the great nation of America, waiting for the onset of dogs and AK-47s.
    She doesn’t talk, said Logan. Like, she can’t. She’s profoundly retarded.
    The guy looked at me. She don’t talk? he said.
    Right, I said. She makes sounds sometimes but it’s impossible to know what she means. I felt Thebie’s foot through the back of my seat, gradually exerting pressure.
    Her folks should get her checked out, said the guy.
    Oh, I know, they have, but—
    It’s your guys’ health care, right? he said. Socialism is really nice in theory but not when you’ve got a retarded kid that needs treatment, right?
    I smiled. Yeah, exactly, I said.
    It’s too bad, he said. He looked at Thebes, shook his head.
    I know, I said. Logan cleared his throat and started tapping the dashboard with his foot.
    All right, said the guy, well, y’all have a good reunion. It’s real sweet you’re taking her with you.
    Hey, yeah, I said. Thanks. She likes to travel.
    Â 
    Thebes picked up a book and lay down in the back seat. What are you reading? I asked her.
    Corporate Media: Threat to Democracy, she said.
    Thebes, man, said Logan, just say “this” and then hold up the book. God. Like you would actually say “Corporate Media: Threat to Democracy.”
    Well, she said, I don’t date a girl who wets her bed.
    She doesn’t wet her bed, said Logan.
    She wears Batman bedsheets, said Thebes.
    Logan turned up the volume on his Discman and then stuck his head out the window like one of those stop signs that pops out of the side of a school bus. Thebes said that if she was eighteen and old enough to drink she’d start a book club.
    We drove straight south into the heartland. Billboards told us not to abort our fetuses or to let our sins get us down or to worry about our bad credit and criminal records. For instant cash all we had to do was call a certain number. Bingo. Logan pulled his head back into the van and took a knife from his pocket.
    What the hell is that? I asked him. A shiv?
    Don’t say “shiv,” he said. He started to carve something into the dashboard.
    Whoa, I said, stop that. He kept carving. Stop that! I said again.
    What’s he doing? asked Thebes. What’s he doing? She was sucking on ice that she’d taken out of the cooler and water was dripping down her face and onto her terry cloth outfit. She took an ice cube out of her mouth and rubbed it on her forehead and then popped it back into her mouth. She was wearing a necklace with a huge, pear-sized plastic jewel dangling from it and a ring with an angel, arms outstretched.
    Where’d you get that? I asked her.
    Logan, she said. For Christmas.
    My hands were shaking. We passed a lot of fields anda few houses and a barn with giant words painted on the side. Bubba Where Are You, it said.
    I miss Min, said Thebes. She leaned forward and put an arm around each of us.
    I know, I said. I wanted to ask her why she regretted being born, if it was a knife-in-the-heart all-consuming regret or an intermittent, passing regret like a loose tooth you worry with your tongue every once in a while. I didn’t know how to say the words. I didn’t know how I’d answer her answer.
    Why can’t she be happy? asked Thebes.
    She often is, I said. Life takes a long time. What the hell does that mean, anyway? Why would I say that to a kid who was already regretting being born?
    Thebes sat back and tapped her Sharpie against her teeth. In the rear-view mirror I saw her squint against the setting sun like a desperado trying to get oriented. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I was bracing myself for another question I wouldn’t be able to answer. But she didn’t ask it. Just kept knocking on her teeth with her marker and staring out at the darkening world. Logan had ignored my plea about not carving into the van and had written into the dash the words Fear Yourself.
    Okay, that’s it, we’re