Wedding, he said mildly. In the light from the dashboard, his face was waxy, the face of a corpse before the makeup went on. That turned- around cap was particularly horrible. It made you wonder how much was left beneath it. I had read somewhere that morticians sawed off the top of the skull and took out the brains and put in some sort of chemically treated cotton. To keep the face from falling in, maybe.
Wedding, I said through numb lips, and even laughed a little a light little chuckle. Wedding’s what I meant to say.
We always say what we mean to say, that’s what I think, the driver said. He was still smiling.
Yes, Freud had believed that, too. I’d read it in Psych 101. I doubted if this fellow knew much about Freud, I didn’t think many Freudian scholars wore sleeveless tee shirts and baseball caps turned around backwards, but he knew enough. Funeral, I’d said. Dear Christ, I’d said funeral. It came to me then that he was playing me. I didn’t want to let him know I knew he was dead.
He didn’t want to let me know that he knew I knew he was dead. And so I couldn’t let him know that I knew that he knew that . . .
The world began to swing in front of me. In a moment it would begin to spin, then to whirl, and I’d lose it. I closed my eyes for a moment. In the darkness, the afterimage of the moon hung, turning green.
You feeling all right, man? he asked. The concern in his voice was gruesome.
Yes, I said, opening my eyes. Things had steadied again. The pain in the backs of my hands where my nails were digging into the skin was strong and real. And the smell. Not just pine air freshener, not just chemicals. There was a smell of earth, as well.
You sure? he asked. Just a little tired. Been hitchhiking a long time. And sometimes I get a little carsick. Inspiration suddenly struck. You know what, I think you better let me out. If I get a little fresh air, my stomach will settle. Someone else will come along and
I couldn’t do that, he said. Leave you out here? No way. It could be an hour before someone came along, and they might not pick you up when they did. I got to take care of you. What’s that song? Get me to the church on time, right? No way I’m letting you out. Crack your window a little, that’ll help. I know it doesn’t smell exactly great in here. I hung up that air freshener, but those things don’t work worth a shit. Of course, some smells are harder to get rid of than others.
I wanted to reach out for the window crank and turn it, let in the fresh air, but the muscles in my arm wouldn’t seem to tighten. All I could do was sit there with my hands locked together, nails biting into the backs of them. One set of muscles wouldn’t work; another wouldn’t stop working. What a joke.
It’s like that story, he said. The one about the kid who buys the almost new Cadillac for seven hundred and fifty dollars. You know that story, don’t you?
Yeah, I said through my numb lips. I didn’t know the story, but I knew perfectly well that I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to hear any story this man might have to tell. That one’s famous. Ahead of us the road leaped forward like a road in an old blackand- white movie.
Yeah it is, fucking famous. So the kid’s looking for a car and he sees an almost brand- new Cadillac on this guy’s lawn.
I said I Yeah, and there’s a sign that says for sale by owner in the window.
There was a cigarette parked behind his ear. He reached for it, and when he did, his shirt pulled up in the front. I could see another puckered black line there, more stitches. Then he leaned forward to punch in the cigarette lighter and his shirt dropped back into place.