Downhill
Northern Californian fiction
Ed was bitching at his field hands for making dumb jokes in the back seat. I was driving the red Ford pickup. Falderall Way was just over the crest of the hill, a tiny dirt turnoff surrounded by fences and vineflowers. So the hill was pretty steep, and Ed was fussing good-naturedly with the guys for playing with the emergency cell phones he kept under the seat. We were going at a pretty good pace, and in the excitement I hit the brakes a little late. Falderall shot past. I pushed the pedal, but it was damned hard to move.
?The brakes are gone, Ed,? I said matter-of-factly.
?Oh??
With all my weight I pushed the pedal to the floor. The wheels locked up for a moment, but that doesn?t do a hell of a lot of good on a steep downgrade on a gravel road. Then we were rolling freely again. The neighbors? driveways whizzed past. I saw blurs of wooden mailboxes and apple trees. At least the road was straight. Everyone was quiet. Ed was surprisingly cool. All I could think about was how he?d said something about the brakes yesterday, at that same place.
?Remember when this happened to me, guys?? he asked. The back seat crew hooted with amusement. We were approaching the bottom of the hill. I noticed that I had eased the pressure on the brake. I flashed Ed a quick smile as we shot past a broken wooden gate that lay in shattered pieces. Ed smiled back.
At the bottom of that last hill Talbot Lane just sort of peters out in a big lot with a big grassy hill. As the road widened and gave way to grass, I hit the brakes as hard as I could and turned the wheel left. The truck slid sideways and lost its momentum. Ed, the boys and Daisy shot out of the cab and up the hill, hollering and whooping, tackling each other like puppies. Daisy dashed between them like a golden comet, barking furiously.
The land was Ed?s. He had inherited it after playing on it his whole life. He came running back down the hill in hot pursuit of Daisy. He was 34, but in the fading afternoon light he could have been fourteen.
He caught the dog, tackled her, and they tumbled to the ground, rolling past me as I was walking up the hill. I turned around, looked at them, then back up at Talbot Lane. The west sides of the houses were still golden.
?You know what the town wants me to do with this land?? he yelled up with that defiant half-grin. ?Now, don?t tell anyone, but Lainie?s...?
?No!? Did I say that, or was it one of the field hands?
?But keep it under your hat.? Ed looked back at the road. ?There?s still a good chance that the?embryo will not be viable.?
It was quiet again, even Daisy. I guessed it was time to get back into the truck, and said so.
Elaine was pregnant. I pictured a tin woman spread-eagle in stirrups; a 40 gallon oil drum supine with jutting jointed chrome bipods, Ed?s million microscopic nuts and bolts tumbling and reverberating furiously within that metal womb. I wondered how he could get any sleep.
The red Ford was an F-150, a ?95 or ?96. It was the ?town? truck; nice upholstery and trim; running boards for the sagging step, neat red circles at the hubs. Brakes give out, you know?
And there she was, you know? Some dervish fiend of a housewife with caked makeup and bags under her chin, stumbling under the weight between screaming imps and barking dogs, hanging vines engulfing the entire tousled mass, blooming and laden with seat belt buckles, nylon mesh bulging and taut, squeezing diamond Play-Doh subway trains of cellulite. Somewhere within her there was the hidden terror of birthing chocolate-glazed donut bars, wishing they were Krispy Kremes.
Do you know what the town wants me to do with this land?
Bags of loose skin, full of golf balls or jelly beans from the Shoppe... under her eyes and chin; bag hag voodoo queen of crow?s feet under silk.
Embryo will not be viable.
A woman entirely of exhaust, rust, sun-cracked plastic dashboard lips leaking rose oil, eyes seized up; antifreeze in the crankcase.
And we drove back home at five miles per hour, up that crunching gravel hill. When we finally turned I could see the yellow valley beyond Ed?s little hillock. It did stretch on.
?The brakes are gone, Ed,? I said matter-of-factly.
?Oh??
With all my weight I pushed the pedal to the floor. The wheels locked up for a moment, but that doesn?t do a hell of a lot of good on a steep downgrade on a gravel road. Then we were rolling freely again. The neighbors? driveways whizzed past. I saw blurs of wooden mailboxes and apple trees. At least the road was straight. Everyone was quiet. Ed was surprisingly cool. All I could think about was how he?d said something about the brakes yesterday, at that same place.
?Remember when this happened to me, guys?? he asked. The back seat crew hooted with amusement. We were approaching the bottom of the hill. I noticed that I had eased the pressure on the brake. I flashed Ed a quick smile as we shot past a broken wooden gate that lay in shattered pieces. Ed smiled back.
At the bottom of that last hill Talbot Lane just sort of peters out in a big lot with a big grassy hill. As the road widened and gave way to grass, I hit the brakes as hard as I could and turned the wheel left. The truck slid sideways and lost its momentum. Ed, the boys and Daisy shot out of the cab and up the hill, hollering and whooping, tackling each other like puppies. Daisy dashed between them like a golden comet, barking furiously.
The land was Ed?s. He had inherited it after playing on it his whole life. He came running back down the hill in hot pursuit of Daisy. He was 34, but in the fading afternoon light he could have been fourteen.
He caught the dog, tackled her, and they tumbled to the ground, rolling past me as I was walking up the hill. I turned around, looked at them, then back up at Talbot Lane. The west sides of the houses were still golden.
?You know what the town wants me to do with this land?? he yelled up with that defiant half-grin. ?Now, don?t tell anyone, but Lainie?s...?
?No!? Did I say that, or was it one of the field hands?
?But keep it under your hat.? Ed looked back at the road. ?There?s still a good chance that the?embryo will not be viable.?
It was quiet again, even Daisy. I guessed it was time to get back into the truck, and said so.
Elaine was pregnant. I pictured a tin woman spread-eagle in stirrups; a 40 gallon oil drum supine with jutting jointed chrome bipods, Ed?s million microscopic nuts and bolts tumbling and reverberating furiously within that metal womb. I wondered how he could get any sleep.
The red Ford was an F-150, a ?95 or ?96. It was the ?town? truck; nice upholstery and trim; running boards for the sagging step, neat red circles at the hubs. Brakes give out, you know?
And there she was, you know? Some dervish fiend of a housewife with caked makeup and bags under her chin, stumbling under the weight between screaming imps and barking dogs, hanging vines engulfing the entire tousled mass, blooming and laden with seat belt buckles, nylon mesh bulging and taut, squeezing diamond Play-Doh subway trains of cellulite. Somewhere within her there was the hidden terror of birthing chocolate-glazed donut bars, wishing they were Krispy Kremes.
Do you know what the town wants me to do with this land?
Bags of loose skin, full of golf balls or jelly beans from the Shoppe... under her eyes and chin; bag hag voodoo queen of crow?s feet under silk.
Embryo will not be viable.
A woman entirely of exhaust, rust, sun-cracked plastic dashboard lips leaking rose oil, eyes seized up; antifreeze in the crankcase.
And we drove back home at five miles per hour, up that crunching gravel hill. When we finally turned I could see the yellow valley beyond Ed?s little hillock. It did stretch on.