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Chapter 17-1

17

The following hours are a half-remembered dream, with disjointed bits and pieces in no apparent order. Occasionally the pain of stepping on something not meant for my soft urban feet would bring my mind into focus, but like the pain, the focus rarely lasted longer than a few moments. I threw up at least once. I recall looking up to see several raccoons sitting on their haunches, watching me as I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. One tilted his head and rubbed his chin in thought, before turning to share his thoughts with his friends. He was a wise raccoon, or a wealthy one, because all of the other raccoons nodded their heads in agreement with his staccato chatter. Then they waved little paws, dropped to all fours, and wobbled away.

In time, I came to another road, as the hooded man had promised. Minutes or hours later, all I knew was that it was still dark. The growth was tangled close to the road with thorny vines and branches. Although an occasional set of headlights pierced the leaves, I felt pretty well screened from view. Sometimes I’d become aware that time had passed, but couldn’t tell if I’d been awake or asleep during that time. The only thought I was able to hold in my mind was that nothing in this world could get me to set foot on that road before daylight.

The slow arrhythmic popping of a diesel engine brought me to my senses soon after dawn. My body was vibrating like a high-strung dog, but I got to my feet with the aid of a nearby tree. Fortunately the engine sound was from a slow-moving tractor, and by the time I made it to the road it had only just passed me. I tried to speak, to yell to the driver, but the flesh in my throat was stuck painfully together and no sound would come out. The hard paved road was torture on my bruised feet, and anything more than a fast, careful walk was beyond me.

I got lucky. Somehow the man driving saw me. I guess tractors have rearview mirrors. He stopped, put on the hazard lights and climbed down. I knew I must look like a wandering lunatic, so I tried to smile as I slowly approached him, but I couldn’t tell if my facial muscles were actually responding. The man stood next to his tractor, one hand on his hip and one toying with a crisp Atlanta Braves cap, and looked me over. He took off his cap and raked his hand over wisps of gray hair and a mostly bare skull. Then he slammed his cap back on his head, decision made, and walked back to his tractor.

Once again, I tried to call out, but my voice failed me. My eyes started to tear at the thought of him leaving. I could almost touch the tractor. The tires were close, but probably too large to grab. Before I could decide whether to try, the man climbed back down, this time with a tall metal travel mug in his hands.

“My wife fixed this for me this morning, but it looks like you need it a damn sight worse than I do,” he said, handing me the mug. His voice shook slightly when he spoke.

I held the mug in my left hand and balanced it with my swollen useless right. After a couple of sips of strong coffee, I thanked him, but that was the extent of my verbal talents. The man took the cup from me and placed it in an improvised cupholder while he helped me up. The seat was slightly bucket-shaped, but wide enough for two. He told me his name was Joe Fisher, that his little farm was less than a mile back down the road. His wife Maggie would know what to do with me.

I had taken up the coffee again and managed a few more sips before we started our rumbling, popping progress.

“I know Maggie,” I said. My voice sounded far away to my own ears, and a very small voice inside my head (good old Mrs. Bibbystock) reminded me it was very unlikely Mr. Fisher was married to my cousin from Birmingham. We didn’t speak often, but I suspected my cousin Maggie would mention it if she had moved to the Panhandle and married a farmer thirty years her senior.

Mr. Fisher looked at me askance. I could tell he didn’t want to touch me, probably out of concern for me more than his own fastidiousness, but he had doubts about my ability to keep my seat. Either my comment or its delivery decided him. As soon as he had gotten the tractor turned around, he placed one arm firmly around my waist as if I were an unruly sack of potatoes.

The pressure of his arm against sore ribs that gave me a moment of intellectual clarity, or perhaps it was the diesel burbling I could feel in my bones. I poked Mr. Fisher’s arm and asked him to stop. When he had I pointed to the red bandanna hanging from his front shirt pocket. He looked at me dubiously but pulled it from his pocket. Just then a wave of nausea hit me, and I realized that even if I got down from the tractor without inflicting more damage on myself, I wouldn’t make it back up under my own power. I breathed deeply, eyes closed, until I knew I could speak. “We need to mark it.”

It only took him a moment to comprehend. He climbed down, walked to edge of the road and picked a tree. I nodded painfully and he tied his handkerchief to a sapling very near where I had emerged onto the road. I managed to stay upright until he got back in the seat and resumed his firm grip. Then I slumped against him and allowed myself to check out for the rest of the ride.