Page 47 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #3

can think of why them fellas got to speed. Seems you always get to where you’re headed quick enough.” They pondered this in silence for an- other two miles before Farnham spoke again. “Besides, looks like you’re the one in the biggest hurry, fella.”
seat. He stared at the blue-black dashboard in front of him and said, “So why did that LaHoe guy kill his wife for, anyways?”
Benson’s mouth opened and closed once in pro- test. “I ain’t in no hurry,” he said in a wounded tone. “I make my own rules. It ain’t like I ever have to be nowheres at no particular time like all them others.” He waved his left hand vaguely in front of him, just as a red Saab 900 Turbo zoomed past the truck and up the road ahead of them.
The old man didn’t answer for the longest time, until Benson, infuriated now by a growing feel- ing that he was no longer in control of events, was about to shout something threatening at him. He sat up abruptly. But before he could open his mouth, the old man’s papery soprano voice start- ed up again.
“If that’s so, whatcha holding that gun on me for, fella?” asked Farnham.
“Cause she wouldn’t yoke, is the way he put it.” “Yoke?”
Benson looked down at the pistol in his right hand, as if he were surprised to discover it there. “Cause I figure I got to be out of Vermont by sundown, before they issue one of them APBs. But once I’m out of this damn state I’ll be free as a damn bird.”
“Ay-uh. Yoke. Said a woman needs a taste of the whip every so often. Said they don’t really mind, once they’re learned who’s lord and master. Only, Joe LaHoe’s wife wouldn’t get learned right the first time nor the tenth, I’d guess.”
“You don’t need that gun out like that,” the old man said, dipping his head beneath the silver cap slightly toward the pistol. “I’ll ride you to the interstate at Wells River for free, leastways if this truck makes it that fair.”
“Oh man, do ya gotta smoke?” said the kid.
Benson’s eyes narrowed. He studied the old man’s profile for more than a minute. Then he grumbled, “All right. But don’t you forget it. I’m still armed and watching you.” He rose slightly from his slumped position and slipped the .22 into his windbreaker pocket.
The old man made no reply. He lit up his cigarette with an ancient-looking Zippo lighter. He exhaled his first lungful with a cough, and the cab filled up with smoke.
The pickup rumbled on for a few miles more until the rhythm of the bald tires on tar passed from being irritating to merely monotonous. They cruised by cornfields and patches of woods and houses and barns and stores of plain or peculiar character until the kid couldn’t stand the tedium nor the buildup of silence anymore.
“Funny thing about it,” Farnham continued after he was done coughing. “LaHoe was this little fella, jest over five foot, I’d guess. Little fella with a big pot belly, doncha know. Had bulging eyes and hair he kept slicked back like that Elvis fella.”
He let out a sigh and slumped further into his
Benson ventured a peek outside. The landscape had changed subtly in the past few miles. Gone were any signs of human existence. Now they seemed to be amidst a wilderness of pines. They were in what the kid knew were the Orange
Farnham pulled a crumpled pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket, shook out a cigarette.
“Oh man...” the kid moaned again and opened his window a crack.
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