It was nearly nine o’clock when Gershner got back with the Lonely Climber in the back seat of his car. They had already dragged barrels from where Mon-Jay found them upside-down, coils of rope inside, about a quarter-mile from the house, in what seemed like the dead center of a scrubby meadow none of them knew very well, or was at least enough of a center that no edge was visible from where they stood. Anything more precise did not bear upon the situation. The Lonely Climber was tied to the rack. The barrels were loaded up into the bed of Mon-Jay's truck, which took the lead in the caravan, a second truck behind it, and then nine cars, identical, black. Gershner and his wife were in the eighth, and they drove miles upon miles, talking happily of the kids, of the news, of parkland, of their favorite new songs (his was "Rice," barely a month old, hers "Tricked-Out Rivals," from a year or so ago, but there were no rules in love), finally permitting one another nostalgia via reminiscence about their wedding. "Whose idea was the brass band?" said Gershner's wife. "Someone in New Orleans, I'm guessing," said Gershner. She laughed. What a laugh. She stopped laughing, clutched her throat. A bolt of ice broke into Gershner's brain. He was about to scream. How could he lose this wonderful woman, this connoisseur of parks and newish music? But it was no malady. Gershner’s wife has spotted the Lonely Climber flapping loose. The present is upon us like a guard dog. She points with the crabbed hand. Gershner puts his foot fully into the brake pedal, hopes there is a shoulder (there is), and shudders to a stop. He runs back for the Lonely Climber, who is humiliated on the roadway, and restores him to his rightful place atop the car. Then he signals to his wife, who signals to Mon-Jay, and off they go, through the nearly purpling evening.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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