Page 19 of Goodbye Paradise
“Sit on the bed,” Caleb ordered. “You look bushed.”
“We’ll take turns,” I promised as Washington cranked the engine, and the big truck hummed to life. The bed was comfortable, though. I scooted back until my spine met the wall, leaving my legs sticking out.
The cab began to move, but I couldn’t see out of the windows from where I sat.
“Where’d you grow up?” Caleb asked.
“Kentucky,” Washington said. “Used to be a tobacco farmer, but trucking pays better…”
I’ll bet we didn’t travel two miles before I fell asleep.
* * *
When I next tuned into the voices in the cab, I’d slumped over, with my head on the mattress. Washington’s voice droned on in the driver’s seat. I couldn’t make myself pay attention until I heard him say, “is your brother okay?”
Caleb didn’t answer right away. “He’s had a rough couple of days. I’d be exhausted, too.”
That was a good answer. It sounded better than, “he’s getting over a flu, and breathing all over your bed.”
“Can’t imagine why someone throws away his own child,” Washington muttered.
“That’s… yeah,” Caleb sighed. “His real father died young, so he didn’t have a protector. That’s who gets thrown out. It’s all about the pecking order.”
“Makes sense.”
“I mean… if you ask Josh, he might tell you that he’s not a good farmer, or not as strong as some. They’ve been telling him that all his life. But that’s crap. Every year, perfectly good workers get tossed out. And all because the older guys each want four wives.”
Washington gave an unhappy grunt. “I dunno. One wife seems like plenty most of the time.”
They both laughed. But I was stuck on what Caleb had said. That we were here right now because of politics, and not because I couldn’t throw a fifty pound bag of chicken feed onto a truck bed.
“You’re not really brothers,” Washington observed.
“Well,” Caleb hedged. “Pretty close, though. Our mothers were friends. I never went a day of my life without sitting next to him.”
“Hmm. You two had a kinda fucked up life. But most people don’t have friends so close. Real community is rare now most places.”
“Yeah? I never thought about it that way.”
“You know,” Washington said, “you ain’t the first kids I ever helped. Usually I don’t pick nobody up if he isn’t real young. Like a teenager. And I never picked up two at once. But you two just don’t smell like criminals.”
“I don’t know, Washington,” Caleb teased. “Earlier I confessed to stealing candy money from the till.” They had another chuckle, and the truck seemed to slow down. “Where are we stopping?”
“North Platte, Nebraska.”
“Cool. My first time out of Wyoming.”
“Christ, boy. Really?”
“Yessir.”
“You amuse me. Both of you. First thing I ever heard you two talk about was whether your brother knew what a blow job was.” He laughed, but then Washington’s tone got more serious. “Imma get a room at that hotel right over there, and you two can sleep in the truck.”
That prompted me to speak up for the first time in hours. “We can’t take your bed.”
Washington waved a dismissive hand. “I only spend everyothernight in that bunk, because I’m not a youngster anymore. There’s a travel budget, and I haven’t hit it too hard lately. I save up for emergencies, and this is one.”
“I’ll pay,” I volunteered.
