Vision Quest by Terry Davis

Author:Terry Davis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

XIII

The asphalt alleys are glazed with ice and shine like new black nylon wrestling shoes. I fall on my ass occasionally. The snow melted from the heat of all the stores and signs and people and cars downtown, but now after the stores are closed it’s freezing again. Riverside and Monroe are both still slushy, though, because of all the kids cruising. But the alleys I run are iced up.

Crossing the Monroe Street bridge is a pain. Creeps of all sorts honk and leer and fling ice balls at me. I recognize some David Thompson kids, so I wave. As I run along I wonder where Shute might be now. I know where Shute is: he’s out running up some mountain through heavy snow, ready to pound Christmas out of Santa Claus.

I feel good when I cross the bridge. Now I can run down side streets. I crunch crisply through the snowy streets. Peripherally, I see the little chunks of snow fling from my boots. Everywhere the night is brightened by the clean snow. Under the streetlights it sparkles. Colored Christmas lights are a muted glow beneath the snow in hedges and firs. They remind me of Harmoniums—happy glowing little creatures living within the planet Mercury in a Kurt Vonnegut book, The Sirens of Titan. I feel good. The air tastes good. I roll my arms in wide circles from the shoulders and watch the running angel shadow. But there are two. Running footsteps crunch behind me. I stop and turn. Bundled and panting, cap hanging elflike, the Sausage Man stands in a cloud of vapor. He hands me something. It’s a frozen plastic bag. I gape.

“Your teeth,” Sausage says. “I’m sorry they froze. I put them in some water like my grandfather does and they froze solid.”

Sure enough, there’s my partial plate embedded in a block of ice.

“Thanks, Sausage,” I say. “Hope you didn’t get cold or in trouble or anything running out of the locker room that way.”

“No sweat,” says the Sausage Man, starting to jog. “The Russian hockey team does that shit all the time.”

* * *

“How was your run?” Carla asks from the bottom of the basement stairs.

“Okay,” I say. “Sausage caught me down by the bridge and gave me back my teeth.” I hold up the plastic bag.

“Frozen shrimp?” Carla guesses.

“Teeth,” I reply. “He put them in water and they froze. He ran with me up to the park and we meet Kuch and ran three through the snow on the track. I hope Mash doesn’t do him permanent harm.”

I’m beat by this time. I take the stairs one at a time, clinging to the rail with one hand and to my boots and rucksack and sweats and teeth with the other. My T-shirt sticks so tight it’s epidermal. Sweat drips from my jock and dots the tile.

“Look!” Carla points to the kitten. It’s snuggled up to a little teddy bear I won for Carla arm wrestling at the Whitworth College carnival. And it’s nursing, sucking loudly at the fur on the bear’s foot.

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