Zeke leaned against the hood. “Not a bigger Engine, Joey. More fuel, that’s all that matters. Bigger channels.”
I drained the last of the bottle. The world was spinning a little crazily and I just wanted to lie flat on the ground. I pulled my blankets out of the car. “Sleep on it, Zeke,” was the last thing I remember saying.
The next morning I woke up and Zeke and the Chevy were gone.
From the direction of the white highways I heard the Chevy’s roar, and in a second I was up and running toward the sound.
As I climbed the embankment I could hear the Brujo’s Caddy starting up. Zeke was right, it was a much bigger Engine. I hopped over the rail in time to see Zeke easing the Chevy up to the line.
I ran up to him, my bare feet smarting from the rubble on the highway. I looked at his hands. The bandages were off and blood was already running down his arms. The Channels in the steering wheel were nearly twice as big as they had been. His hands couldn’t cover the gaps.
Zeke turned to me and smiled. “I’m gonna bury this sucker,” he said. “Hop in, Joe. You’re my lucky piece.”
“Are you crazy?” I screamed. “Don’t do this Zeke!”
I heard the Brujo’s voice. “Get out of the way, Joe. Tell Frank the Crank that I beat his son.”
“What?” I turned around. I was between the Caddy and the Chevy. A big driver reached me and pulled me out of the way. The start girl raised the green flag.
The two cars took off. The exhaust smelled like sulphur.
Since I was at the starting end of the track I didn’t see how it happened. Spectators at the far end said they saw the Brujo’s Caddy was ahead the whole way, until the ¾ mile marker. There the Chevy suddenly put on a burst of speed and passed the Caddy. Everyone agrees that the Chevy crossed the finish line first.
Only a couple people said that they actually saw the Pattern blow, or that they saw a whirlwind of light spin into the cabin with Zeke. Even the Brujo, driving right behind him, said that he couldn’t be sure what happened. But everyone could hear that Engine roaring like the wind in their ears and screaming like a calf at the slaughter.
The Chevy never slowed down. It left tracks of blood on white cement.
I hitched my way across California, Arizona, and Mexicana. Some drivers wouldn’t stop for me, but the ones that did knew who I was and wanted to talk about Zeke’s race. Except for my last ride, Naomi.
Somewhere in the middle of Texas she looked at me through the rear view mirror, blew air through her lips like a baby, and then laughed uproariously.
“You scared of a woman driver, Lucky Joe?” she yelled over the roar of the wind.
Was I? Naomi was one of the few female drivers on the Circuit; she was in her mid-thirties. They made fun of her off the highways. On the highways they tried their damnedest to beat her.
I shook my head no, for safety’s sake.
“You should be, Lucky, you should be. I think women are going to dominate racing soon.” She must have seen my disbelief. “Oh no? Tell me, Joey. What’s an Engine?”
“Everybody knows what an Engine is,” I said. “A demon.”
“A demon? An angry, vengeful spirit trapped in the pattern of a car.” She shut her eyes to consider this. We stayed perfectly on course.
Her eyes sprang open. She smiled. “Exactly right. A demon. But what is an Engine before you trap it?”
“That’s stupid…” I began, but then stopped. I remembered the beauty of the whirlwind spinning inside blue circles. “I give up. What is it?”
“An angel.”
I snorted. “Think about it, Joey. If you trapped a creature, made it do what you wanted, whenever you wanted, and then destroyed it, wouldn’t you feel more comfortable calling the thing evil? Torturing an ‘angel’ would bring so much guilt to our manly drivers.”
I remembered Zeke, the tracks of blood. “You don’t know what you’re talking about lady. I’ve seen my friend… a guy, go zombi. That was no ‘angel’.”
“Even an angel might go insane.” She gestured dismissively with one hand. “And you’re right, the name ‘angel’ is meaningless. All names are meaningless.”
Naomi shut up suddenly. She was looking at me strangely. “Are you okay?”
I looked out the window and let the hot Texas wind blow tears off my face. Naomi drove on in silence. A long while later, when it was dark and we were half way into Kintucky, I only asked, “So why do women make better drivers?”
She chuckled. “Revenge.”
It was a late afternoon three days after she’d picked me up when Naomi stopped the car and let me out near my father’s farm. She had driven the whole way without sleeping. The cold October wind whipped at my clothes, tugged at my bedroll. She smiled up at me.
“Here you are, Lucky Joe.”
“Thanks, Naomi. I appreciate the lift.”
“Any time. Take care of yourself, now. And do me a favor; stay away from the Engines. Fall in love, settle down and be a farmer.”
“Okay, I promise.” Then I said: “What about you?”
She patted my hand with one scarred palm. “Good,” was all she said. Her eyes sparkled like no color at all. I watched her disappear before I turned my face to the wind and started down the embankment.
I walked the two miles from the highway breathing in the familiar smells of harvest. The corn was only half cut, though, and we were only weeks away from snow. A knot of fear cinched tight in my stomach.
I stepped up to the porch and pushed through the door. It was supper time. The family sat at the table, my Father at one end, Firstmother at the other, my two sisters and Sara in the middle. My place was empty.
My sisters swiveled in their chairs as I walked in, then quickly turned back to the table and dropped their eyes. Sarah looked up, smiled slightly, and started to get up. Her belly was hugely round beneath her dress.
Firstmother quietly said, “No.” Sara sat down awkwardly.
Father chewed slowly, his eyes on his plate.
I pulled out my chair. The scrape sounded deafening. I sat down. There was not much food on the table.
I wanted a confrontation. I wanted screaming, yelling. I wanted punishment, hard labor in the fields. They gave me silence.
When they had finished eating, each person drifted away from the table and went to their rooms.
Much later I heard a timid knock at my door. Just as I covered myself Sara stepped in. She was holding a plate of beans and cornbread.
“I thought you might want some,” she said.
“Thank you.” I tore of hunks off cornbread and sopped them in the beans. It was delicious. Sara watched me eat.
“When is it coming?” I said after awhile.
“December twenty-third,” she said. “His name will be Elijah.”
“You seem pretty sure.”
“I am sure. A mother knows these things.”
When I finished she took the empty plate from me and touched the back of my neck. “You’d better get some sleep.”
I woke up just before dawn feeling warm and comfortable beneath the blanket. I could hear my Father moving around in the kitchen. It was time for chores, then school, and then maybe a walk with Zeke out to the City….
No.
It suddenly felt very cold in the room. I pulled on my clothes and stepped out into the kitchen. The first light glowed through the frosted windows. First frost, and the crops not even half in. I heard the front door bang shut. I followed Father out into the yard.
He was gazing at the husks glistening like a glassblower’s interpretation of corn. His back was stiff, straight. I stood next to him and stared into the fields.