“Not that I remember,” I said. “Isn’t this supposed to be horse country? I expected blue grass and white fences.”
“That’s closer to Lexington, northeast of here. The fences these days are black. Over in the far eastern part of the state, you have the coal fields of Harlan County. This is western Kentucky where most of the tobacco’s grown.”
“She doesn’t want a travelogue, Ray.”
“Yes, I do,” I said. She was always taking cuts at him, which made me feel protective. If she was going to be the bad daughter, I was going to be the good. “Show me on the map.”
He pointed to an area north of the Tennessee border, between the Barren River Lake and the Nolan River Lake. “We just passed through Bowling Green, and we got Mammoth Cave National Park coming up on our left. We had time, we’d do the tour. Talk about dark. You go down in the caverns, when the guide turns out the lights? You can’t see for shit. It’s blacker than black, and it’s dead quiet. Fifty-four degrees. It’s like a meatpacking plant. Three hundred miles of passageways they’ve found so far. Last time I went was maybe 1932. A field trip in school. Left a big impression on me. When I was in prison, I used to think about that. You know, one day I’d come back and take the tour again.”
Laura was looking at him strangely. “That’s what you thought about? Not women or whiskey or fast cars?”
“All I wanted was to get away from overhead lights and the noise. The racket’s enough to drive you nuts. And the smell. That’s another thing about Mammoth Cave. It smells like moss and wet rocks. Doesn’t smell like sweat and testosterone. It smells like life before birth … what’s the word, primordial.”
“Geez. I’m sorry I have to go back to California so soon. You’re talking me into it,” I said dryly.
Ray smiled. “You joke, but you’d like it. I guarantee.”
“Primordial?” Laura said with disbelief.
“What, you’re surprised I know words like that? I got my GED. I even took college classes. Economics and psychology and shit like that. Just because I was in prison doesn’t mean I’m a fool. Lot of smart guys in prison. You’d be surprised,” he said.
“Really,” she said, sounding unconvinced.
“Yeah, really. I bet I can work a sewing machine better than you, for starters.”
“That wouldn’t take much,” she said.
“This is very uplifting sitting here talking to you. You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re the one complains your stepdad is always putting you down. Why don’t you do better, improve the situation instead of acting like him?”
Laura said nothing. Ray studied her profile and finally looked back at the road.
The silence stretched uncomfortably, and I could feel myself squirm. “How far from here?”
“About an hour and a half. How’re you doing back there?”
“I’m doing good,” I said.
We reached Louisville just before noon, approaching the town on Highway 65. I could see the airport on our left, and I nearly whimpered with longing. We took an intersecting highway west through an area called Shively, bypassing most of the downtown business district. To our right, I could see the clusters of tall buildings, sturdy blocks of concrete, most of them squared off on top. Ahead of us was the Ohio River, with Indiana visible on the other side.
We exited in an area called Portland, which was where Ray Rawson grew up. I could see his smile quicken as he took in the neighborhood. He turned toward me halfway, putting his arms across the seat back. “The Portland Canal’s down that way. Locks were built a hundred years ago to take river traffic past the falls. My great-grandfather worked on the construction. I’ll take you over there if we have time.”
I was more interested in catching a plane than seeing any of the local landmarks, but I knew the offer was part of his excitement at coming home. Having been incarcerated for most of the last forty-five years, he was probably feeling like Rip van Winkle, marveling at all the changes in the world at large. It might be a comfort that his immediate neighborhood seemed untouched by the passage of time. The streets were wide, trees showing the last vestiges of autumn leaves. Most trees were bare, but down the block I could see smatterings of yellow and red leaves remaining. On the street we’d taken, coming off the freeway, many house fronts had been converted into businesses: signs for child care, a hair salon, a tackle shop selling live bait. The yards were uniformly small and flat, separated by chicken-wire fences with dilapidated gates. Dead leaves, like scraps of brown paper, choked the house gutters and littered the walks. Ten- and twelve-year-old cars were parked at the curbs. Older models were lined up in driveways, with For Sale signs painted on the windshields. Telephone poles were more plentiful than trees, and the wires cut back and forth across the streets like supports for tenting that hadn’t been erected yet. Down a side street, I could see railroad cars sitting on a side track.
I would have bet money the neighborhood had looked this way since the 1940s. There was no evidence of construction, no indication of any old structures torn down or condemned to make way for the new. Shrubs were overgrown. The tree trunks were massive, obstructing windows and porches where once the overhanging branches had provided only dappled shade. Sidewalks had buckled, broken by the roots. Forty years of weather had picked at the asphalt siding on some of the houses. Here and there I could see fresh paint, but my guess was that nothing much had changed in the years since Ray had been here.
As we pulled up in front of his mother’s house, I could feel a heaviness descend. It was like the low droning note in the score for a horror movie, the minor chord that betokens a dark shape in the water, or something unseen, waiting in the shadows behind the basement door. The sensation was probably simple depression, born of borrowed clothes, junk food, and erratic sleep. Whatever the genesis, I knew it was going to be hours before I could get on a plane for California.
Laura turned off the ignition on the rental car and got out. Ray emerged on his side, searching the front of the house with wonderment. I had no choice but to join them. I felt like a prisoner, suffering a temporal claustrophobia so pronounced it made my skin itch.
16
Ray’s mother’s house was situated on a narrow lot on a street occupied entirely by single-family dwellings. The house was a two-story red-brick structure, with a one-story red-brick extension jutting out in front. The two narrow front windows sat side by side, caged by burglar bars and capped with matching lintels. Three concrete steps led up to the door, which was set flush against the house and shaded by a small wooden roof cap. I could see a second entrance tucked around on the right side of the house down a short walk. The house next door was a fraternal twin, the only difference being the absence of the porch roof, which left its front door exposed to the elements.
Ray headed for the side entrance with Laura and me tagging along behind like baby ducklings. Between the two houses, the air seemed very chill. I crossed my arms to keep warm, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, eager to be indoors. Ray tapped on the door, which had ornamental burglar bars across the glass. Through the window I could see bright light pouring from a room on the left, but there was no sign of movement. Idly, he talked over his shoulder to me. “These are called ‘shotgun’ cottages, one room wide and four rooms deep so you could stand at the front door and fire a bullet all the way through.” He pointed up toward the second story. “Hers is called a humpback because it’s got a second bedroom above the kitchen. My great-grandfather built both these places back in 1880.”
“Looks like it,” Laura said.
He pointed a finger at her. “Hey, you watch it. I don’t want you hurting Gramma’s feelings.”
“Oh, right. Like I’d really stand here and insult her house. Geez, Ray. Give me credit for some intelligence.”
“What is it with you? You’re such a fuckin’ victim,” he said.
Inside the house, another light came on. Laura bit back whatever tart response she’d formed to her father’s chiding. The curtain was pushed aside and an elderly woman peered out. In the absence of dentures, her mouth had rolled inward in a state of collapse. She was short and heavyset, with a soft round face, her white hair pulled up tightly in a hard knot wound around with rubber bands. She squinted through wire-frame glasses, both lenses heavily magnified. “What you want?” she bellowed through the glass at us.