(eng) Mark Wayne McGinnis - The Simpleton 02 by The Simpleton Quest

Author:The Simpleton Quest [Quest, The Simpleton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

Seven years earlier…

Cuddy sat quietly as the old Rambler ambled down one country road after another. Slatch was a channel changer—his fingers spinning the tuning dial, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right—nearly non-stop. Although he seemed to prefer country music, he’d listen to a Beatle’s song, or some other band Cuddy couldn’t remember the name of.

“Are we almost there, Slatch?”

“You just asked me that, boy.”

“What did you say when I asked you?”

“I told you soon…we just need to get up on I-24 going west. From there, it’s a straight shot up to Music City.” Noting Cuddy’s confused expression, Slatch added, “Nashville…where your pa lives.”

“Oh yeah…he’s going to be excited to see me. I’m going to tell him about all the things he’s missed. Like all but two of the chickens are dead. I think we used to have a lot more of them. And Momma sometimes works in town, putting books back on the shelves in the Library. And that the A&W closed down, due to not enough people coming around.”

Slatch held up a palm.” You can tell him all that stuff when you see him.”

But Cuddy was already distracted, noticing the rear seat was empty. “Where’s Rufus? I don’t go anywhere without Rufus!”

The dog is fine…back at the farm. Hey, does your ma ever talk about things…like when she and your pa were young? She ever mention me?”

“No, why would she?”

“Because we were friends…the three of us. Oh, forget it. Never mind.”

As country music continued to play on the radio, Slatch repeatedly opened and closed his window, spitting out then fiddling with the dial some more.

The car started making a strange noise. Slatch raised his chin and stared out the front windshield, peering down the car’s hood, like he was trying to communicate directly with the old engine beneath it. “Ah shit!” Slatch murmured.

“What’s that whistling?”

Slatch didn’t answer. Instead, he turned the volume up on the radio. Glancing over at Cuddy, he pointed to the dial, “Johnny Cash. Folsom Prison Blues…I bet your pa knows this song…knows it real well.”

Cuddy listened to the catchy melody—a song about a train rollin’ along and a guy sitting in jail. “Is my pa a criminal?”

“Nah…forget I said anything. I’m sure he’s on the straight-and-narrow these past few years.”

“I have to pee.”

“Can’t you hold it for another fifteen or twenty minutes?”

“I think I’ve already held it that long.”

“There’s no place to stop…no bathrooms handy.”

“A tree will do me just fine. Pull up over there. Maybe then you can check under the hood too.”

“I don’t need to check under there. I know what that sound is…it comes and goes.”

“If you say so. I still need to pee. Come on…pull over, I’ll be quick.”

Grudgingly, Slatch slowly turned the steering wheel and the old Rambler moved off the main highway onto a dirt and gravel side road. Cuddy threw open the door and ran down a sloping hill toward a crop of tall pines some thirty yards away. Selecting the first big tree he came to, he relieved his bladder within seconds.

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