I nudged Michael as I pulled into the parking area. “Do you believe in Santa Claus, Mike?”
“He doesn’t like to be called Mike,” Doc said.
“I don’t mind,” Michael retorted, “but Santa Claus sucks a big dick.” He giggled at his own wit. I laughed along with him.
“A jaded lad,” Doc piped in wryly from the backseat.
“Like his dad?”
“Very much like his dad. In some respects. I take it this is our destination?”
“Let’s vote. Mike?”
“Yes!”
“Doc?”
“Why not?”
I dug a big paper bag full of sandwiches and a large thermos of iced tea out of the trunk, and we strolled through the little town. I was right–the building facades _were_ studio sets: Dodge City Jail, Miller’s General Store, Diamond Jim’s Saloon, Forty-niners Dance Hall. But only the roofs remained intact–the fronts had been ripped out and replaced with bars, behind which a scrawny assortment of wildlife reposed. The Dodge City Jail held two skinny lions.
“The king of beasts,” Doc muttered as we passed by. “I’m king of the beasts,” Michael countered, walking next to me ahead of his father.
Diamond Jim’s Saloon held a bloated elephant. It lay comatose on a cement floor covered with feces.
“Looks like a certain Republican I could name,” I said.
“Watch out!” Michael squealed. “Dad’s a Republican, and he can’t take a joke!” Michael started to giggle and leaned into me. I put my arm around him and held him tightly.
Our last stop before the picnic area was “Diamond Lil’s Carny House and Social Hall,” no doubt a B-movie euphemism for “whorehouse.” Diamond Lil and her girls were not in residence. Ugly, chattering, pink-faced baboons were there instead.
Michael tore free from my arm. He started to tremble as he had in the drive-in two days before. He pulled large hunks of dirt from the ground and hurled them full force at the baboons.
“Dirty fucking drunks!” he screamed. “Dirty, filthy, goddamned, fucking drunks!” He let loose another barrage of dirt and started to scream again, but no words came out, and the jabbering of the creatures in the cage rose to a shrieking cacophony.
Michael was bending down to pick up more ammunition when I grabbed him around the shoulders. As he squirmed to free himself, I heard Doc say soothingly, “Easy, fellow. Easy, Michael boy, it’s going to be okay, easy . . .”
Michael slammed a bony elbow into my stomach. I let go of him and he tore off like an antelope in the direction of the rest area. I let him get a good lead, then followed. He was fast, and sprinting full out, and I knew in his condition he would run until he collapsed.
We ran through the wooded area into a miniature box canyon laced with scrub pines. Suddenly there was noplace left to run. Michael fell down at the base of a large pine tree and encircled it fiercely with his skinny arms, rocking on his knees. As I came up to him, I could hear a hoarse wail rise from his throat. I knelt beside him and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and let him cry until he gradually surrendered his grip on the tree and placed his arms around me.
“What is it, Michael?” I asked softly, ruffling his hair. “What is it?”
“Call me Mike,” he sobbed. “I don’t want to be called Michael anymore.”
“Mike, who killed your mother?”
“I don’t know!”
“Have you ever heard of anyone named Eddie Engels?”
Mike shook his head and buried it deeper into my chest.
“Margaret Cadwallader?”
“No,” he sobbed.
“Mike, do you remember living on Hibiscus Canyon when you were five?”
Mike looked up at me. “Y-yes,” he said.
“Do you remember the trip your mother took while you were living there?”
“Yes!”
“Ssssh. Where did she go?”
“I don’t . . .”
I helped the boy to his feet and put my arm around him. “Did she go to Wisconsin?”
“I think so. She brought back all this gooey cheese and this smelly sauerkraut. Fucking German squarehead bastards.”
I lifted the boy’s chin off his chest. “Who did you stay with while she was gone?”