8
The Oatley Tunnel
1
Six days later, Jack had climbed nearly all the way out of his despair. By the end of his first days on the road, he seemed to himself to have grown from childhood right through adolescence into adulthood—into competence. It was true that he
had not returned to the Territories since he had awakened on the western bank of the river, but he could rationalize that,
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and the slower travelling it involved, by telling himself that he was saving Speedy’s juice for when he really needed it.
And anyhow, hadn’t Speedy told him to travel mainly on
the roads in this world? Just following orders, pal.
When the sun was up and the cars whirled by him thirty,
forty miles west and his stomach was full, the Territories
seemed unbelievably distant and dreamlike: they were like a movie he was beginning to forget, a temporary fantasy. Sometimes, when Jack leaned back into the passenger seat of some schoolteacher’s car and answered the usual questions about
the Story, he actually did forget. The Territories left him, and he was again—or nearly so—the boy he had been at the start
of the summer.
Especially on the big state highways, when a ride dropped
him off near the exit ramp, he usually saw the next car pulling off to the side ten or fifteen minutes after he stuck his thumb into the air. Now he was somewhere near Batavia, way over in the western part of New York State, walking backward down
the breakdown lane of I-90, his thumb out again, working his way toward Buffalo—after Buffalo, he would start to swing
south. It was a matter, Jack thought, of working out the best way to accomplish something and then just doing it. Rand
McNally and the Story had gotten him this far; all he needed was enough luck to find a driver going all the way to Chicago or Denver (or Los Angeles, if we’re going to daydream about luck, Jacky-baby), and he could be on his way home again before the middle of October.
He was suntanned, he had fifteen dollars in his pocket
from his last job—dishwasher at the Golden Spoon Diner in
Auburn—and his muscles felt stretched and toughened.
Though sometimes he wanted to cry, he had not given in to
his tears since that first miserable night. He was in control, that was the difference. Now that he knew how to proceed,
had worked it out so painstakingly, he was on top of what was happening to him; he thought he could see the end of his journey already, though it was so far ahead of him. If he travelled mainly in this world, as Speedy had told him, he could move as quickly as he had to and get back to New Hampshire with
the Talisman in plenty of time. It was going to work, and he was going to have many fewer problems than he had expected.
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THE TALISMAN
That, at least, was what Jack Sawyer was imagining as
a dusty blue Ford Fairlane swerved off to the shoulder of
the road and waited for him to run up to it, squinting into the lowering sun. Thirty or forty miles, he thought to himself. He pictured the page from Rand McNally he had studied that morning, and decided: Oatley. It sounded dull, small, and safe—he was on his way, and nothing could hurt him
now.
2
Jack bent down and looked in the window before opening the
Fairlane’s door. Fat sample books and printed fliers lay messily over the back seat; two oversize briefcases occupied the passenger seat. The slightly paunchy black-haired man who
now seemed almost to be mimicking Jack’s posture, bending
over the wheel and peering through the open window at the
boy, was a salesman. The jacket to his blue suit hung from the hook behind him; his tie was at half-mast, his sleeves were rolled. A salesman in his mid-thirties, tooling comfortably through his territory. He would love to talk, like all salesmen.
The man smiled at him and picked up first one of the outsize briefcases, hoisting it over the top of the seat and onto the litter of papers behind, then the other. “Let’s create a little room,” he said.
Jack knew that the first thing the man would ask him was
why he was not at school.
He opened the door, said, “Hey, thanks,” and climbed in.
“Going far?” the salesman asked, checking the rear-view
mirror as he slid the gear-lever down into drive and swung
back out onto the road.
“Oatley,” Jack said. “I think it’s about thirty miles.”
“You just flunked geography,” the salesman said. “Oatley’s
more like forty-five miles.” He turned his head to look at
Jack, and surprised the boy by winking at him. “No offense,”
he said, “but I hate to see young kids hitching. That’s why I always pick em up when I see em. At least I know they’re safe with me. No touchie-feelie, know what I mean? Too many
crazies out there, kid. You read the papers? I mean, I’m talking carnivores. You could turn yourself into an endangered
species.”
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“I guess you’re right,” Jack said. “But I try to be pretty
careful.”
“You live somewhere back there, I take it?”
The man was still looking at him, snatching little birdlike peeks ahead down the road, and Jack frantically searched his memory for the name of a town back down the road.
“Palmyra. I’m from Palmyra.”
The salesman nodded, said, “Nice enough old place,” and
turned back to the highway. Jack relaxed back into the com-
fortable plush of the seat. Then the man finally said, “I guess you’re not actually playing hooky, are you?” and it was time yet again for the Story.
He had told it so often, varying the names of the towns in-
volved as he worked westward, that it had a slick, monologuelike feel in his mouth. “No, sir. It’s just that I have to go over to Oatley to live with my Aunt Helen for a little while. Helen Vaughan? That’s my mom’s sister. She’s a schoolteacher. My
dad died last winter, see, and things have been pretty tough—
then two weeks ago my mom’s cough got a lot worse and she
could hardly get up the stairs and the doctor said she had to stay in bed for as long as she could and she asked her sister if I could come stay with her for a while. Her being a teacher and all, I guess I’ll be in Oatley school for sure. Aunt Helen wouldn’t let any kid play hooky, you bet.”
“You mean your mother told you to hitchhike all the way
from Palmyra to Oatley?” the man asked.
“Oh no, not at all—she’d never do that. No, she gave me
bus money but I decided to save it. There won’t be much
money from home for a long time, I guess, and Aunt Helen
doesn’t really have any money. My mom would hate it if she
knew I was thumbing it. But it seemed like a waste of money to me. I mean, five bucks is five bucks, and why give it to a bus driver?”
The man looked sideways at him. “How long do you think
you’ll be in Oatley?”
“Hard to say. I sure hope my mom gets well pretty soon.”
“Well, don’t hitch back, okay?”
“We don’t have a car anymore,” Jack said, adding to the
Story. He was beginning to enjoy himself. “Can you believe
this? They came out in the middle of the night and repos-
sessed it. Dirty cowards. They knew everybody would be
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asleep. They just came out in the middle of the night and stole the car right out of the garage. Mister, I would have fought for that car—and not so I could get a ride to my aunt’s house.
When my mom goes to the doctor, she has to walk all the way down the hill and then go about another five blocks just to get to the bus stop. They shouldn’t be able to do that, should
they? Just come in and steal your own car? As soon as we
could, we were going to start making the payments again. I
mean, wouldn’t you call that stealing?”
“If it happened to me, I suppose I would,” the man said.
“Well, I hope your mother gets better in a hurry.”
“You and me both,” Jack said with perfect honesty.
And that held them until the signs for the Oatley exit be-
gan to appear. The salesman pulled back into the breakdown
lane just after the exit ramp, smiled again at Jack and said,
“Good luck, kid.”
Jack nodded and opened the door.