Joe drove along slowly, as though adding speed would only substantiate the appearance of kidnap. Since he was pouring with sweat, he now merely wished to add a few amiable notes and get Ellen back to the schoolyard. This had all turned into something a bit different from what he had hoped for. At that very moment, he began to realize how much he wished he had Astrid advising him right now. She would say something quite concrete like “Hit the brakes” or “Don’t do anything stupid. That way nobody will get hurt.”
“Here they come,” said Ellen.
“Here comes who?”
“Look in the mirror.”
A small motorcade had formed a mile or so back; a cloud of dust arose from them and drifted across the sage flats. Joe picked up speed but couldn’t seem to widen the gap. Perspiration broke out on his lip. “Are you going to clear this business up with that mob, if they catch us?”
“Let me get back to you on that,” said Ellen with the faintest smile. Ellen had become so strange. It was more than indifference — it was a weird fog. He imagined her thinking how badly she wanted to get shut of this jackass and back to the husband and daughter she loved. This perception reduced Joe’s account to virtual sardine size. He felt too paltry to go on taking the wheel.
He flattened the accelerator against the floor. The truck seemed to swim at terrific speed up the gradual grade toward the hills. A jack rabbit burst onto the road ahead of them, paced the truck for fifty yards and peeled off into the sagebrush. Nothing Joe did seemed to extend the distance between himself and the cluster of vehicles behind.
“Have you been doing any fishing?” Ellen asked.
“I really haven’t had the time.”
The truck skidded slightly sideways.
“Somebody said there’s a Mexican woman staying with you.” So that was it. A bird dove at the windshield and veered off in a pop of feathers.
“An old girlfriend,” Joe said candidly. “It’s a very sad thing. She couldn’t stick it out. She’d had enough, and she was very patient in her own way. If she’d lied to me more I’d be with her today.”
Ellen mused at the rocketing scenery.
“I’ve got a teacher’s meeting in Helena,” she said wearily. “On Tuesday. That’s another world.”
“Who will substitute for you?”
“An old lady who doesn’t make the kids work. It makes me look like a bum.” Somehow, Joe got the truck into a wild slide going down a steep grade into a gully. The truck turned backward at about sixty miles an hour. “This is really making me moody,” said Ellen. They plunged into a grove of junipers and burst out the other side in a shower of wood and branches. Some of the foliage was heaped up against the windshield and it was a little while before Joe could see where he was going. The vigilantes were still bringing up the rear in a cloud of dust. One of them dropped back, a plume of steam jetting from the radiator.
It was hopeless. He couldn’t outrun them in this evil, weak farm truck. All he wanted was a brainless chase that could last for weeks. He stopped, backed and turned around. Deadrock was visible in the blue distance. The machines advanced toward him. “You’ve really got a bee in your bonnet,” Ellen said.
“Shut up, you stupid bitch, you rotten crumb.”
“I see,” said Ellen. “The idea being that I got you into this?”
Joe said nothing.
“After the big rush, I am now a ‘stupid bitch.’ This may be the first serious conversation we’ve had since we met. Are you telling me that it is possible I could mean more to you than pussy or golf lessons? Let’s have it, Joe. I could actually rise in your esteem to the status of ‘stupid bitch.’ Oh, this is romantic. I had really misjudged the depth of feeling around here. And I’ve gone back to my husband when I could have enjoyed these passionate tongue-lashings.”
At the approach of massed cars and trucks, Joe just stopped. Twenty vehicles wheeled all around them and skidded to a halt, dumping a small crowd of armed civilians, the State Farm agent, a mechanic still in his coveralls, a pharmacist in a white tunic of some kind, a couple of waitresses. They were still pouring out and a few guns had been displayed, when Ellen threw open her door and cried, “This is all a terrible misunderstanding! It was supposed to be a joke!” She climbed out of the truck. One of the mechanics, in coveralls and a gray crewcut that showed the crown of his head, came to the truck and held a gun to Joe’s temple. Joe looked over to see Billy Kelton emerging from a Plymouth Valiant he should have recognized. “A complication,” Joe said. “Here comes Billy.”
“Son,” said the man in the crewcut in a startlingly mild voice, “this is where she all comes out in the wash.” Joe had a sudden feeling of isolation as Ellen walked over and joined her husband at a distance from the cluster of people and vehicles. Billy shoved her away from him and began to walk toward Joe’s truck. Joe wondered what the shoving meant, in terms of a margin of safety, of an exploitable ambiguity.
“That’s Billy,” said Joe’s guard. “He’s getting ready to have a fit.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Do? He’s going back to Vietnam!”
The mechanic smiled like a season ticket holder. The blood beat in Joe’s face. Joe thought that was the time to grab the gun but he just thought about it with a kind of longing, knowing he wouldn’t have any idea what to do with it.
Billy came over with a bakery truck driver at his side, a blond-haired man with long sideburns and an expression of permanent surprise. “Something to tell the grandchildren, ay?” Billy said to the mechanic. “Get him out for me, would you?”
The mechanic opened the door and dragged Joe out. He and the man from the bakery held his arms, shoving him up against the car. Billy got so close, Joe could only focus on one of his eyes at a time. But it was enough for Joe to recognize that Billy didn’t have his heart in this. Twice he had punched Joe years ago and apparently that was enough. “Time is hastening, Joe. You need to cut it out.” Billy turned and spoke to the others. “You guys can go.” They hesitated in their disappointment. “Go on,” he said more firmly. They began to move off. “The show is over,” he said, making what Joe considered an extraordinary concession.
“Is that it?” asked the mechanic.
“That’s it,” said Billy without turning back. “Ellen, take my car back to the house.”
“He really didn’t do anything, Billy.”
“Probably not. Just go on back now with Vern and them.”
Ellen moved away from them. A breeze had come up and the clouds were moving overhead rapidly. The air was cold enough that the exhaust smell of the vehicles was sharp. Billy turned to Joe once more. “We’ll just let Ellen go on back to town with Vern and them. If she goes, they’ll all go. They’re upset because they couldn’t lynch you. You and your family sure been popular around here. All them boys banked with your dad.”
“Which one is Vern?” asked Joe without interest.
“Fella with the flattop.”
“Oh.” Joe’s eyes drifted over to Vern, who was returning reluctantly to a car much too small for him. Joe couldn’t see how he could even get in it. But he elected not to report this impression.
“Let me drive,” said Billy, opening the door to get in. Joe slid over.
“The keys are in it,” Joe said with a sickly smile.
Billy was wearing old levis and wingtip cowboy boots nearly worn through on top by spur straps. He smiled at Joe and started up the truck. Joe could see that the cars and trucks which had followed them were almost out of sight now. As the various members of the community who had come out to help returned to town in their cars, something went out of the air. Joe said, “I saw on the news they’re having a potato famine in Malibu.”