“Bob and I would be glad to provide Miss McKenna with transportation to Vernon if she so desires,” Lovecraft said to Sam.
Sam gave a broad, toothy smile. “That’s just dandy. Thank you both.”
“Yes, I really appreciate it,” said Glory. “I can pay you for your trouble.”
“Nonsense. That will not be necessary. We would not endeavor to assist you for pecuniary gain.” When he turned to gesture politely toward the car, he saw that Howard had already popped the trunk to load the suitcase.
A few quick good-byes, and they were ready to leave. Glory sat somewhat forlornly in the backseat and gave Thalia one last look. It was hardly a place to feel nostalgic about, but the sight of Sam’s cafe still touched something in her. Just as she turned away, as Howard put the car Into gear and started out onto the road, Sam leaped out of the cafe.
“Hold on up there a minute!” Sam roared.
Glory smiled.
Sam stalked up to the car with a large jar of beef jerky and several cold bottles of Coca-Cola in his hands. He leaned through the passenger window and droppred the items into Lovecraft’s lap. “Something for the road.”
“Thanks, Sam,” said Howard.
“Yes…” said Lovecraft, trying to figure out what was in the jar.
“You are much too kind.”
“You fellas have a safe trip.” Sam looked back at Glory. An unspoken communication passed between them.
“Good-bye, Sam,” Glory said with a smile. “I want to thank you again for being a true friend.”
“Good luck in Las Vegas. Be sure to send me a postcard, now. Let me know how you’re doin’. I’d be lyin’ if I said I won’t worry about you.”
“I will.”
As the Chevy pulled away and Thalia disappeared behind them in a cloud of dust, Glory’s last vision was of Sam’s face, the wind blowing his shaggy mane of hair across his eyes.
6
GLORY McKENNA SQUINTED in the backseat where the wind from both front windows buffeted her already-unruly hair against her eyes, tangling it into a mass she knew would be agony to comb through. The two men seemed to be holding their annoyance behind a silence so thick she could almost see it-sealing her off in the back behind a layer of soundproof emotional glass as if she were some dignitary in a posh limousine. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and leaned against the seat back, between Howard’s and Lovecraft’s heads, placing her chin over the interlaced fingers of her hands.
“So,” she said, “where are you fellas going, anyway?”
Lovecraft continued to stare out of the window. Howard, his neck slick with sweat, swiveled his head to give her a quick sideswipe of a glance.
“What’s it to ya, anyway? If I was you, I’d be happy to have this ride, Miss.”
“That was a very chivalrous thing you did back there. What’s your name again? I’m terrible with names.”
“Robert. Robert E. Howard, the greatest pulp writer that ever lived or will live,” he said, glancing sideways again, but this time at his pale companion.
“Indeed,” said Lovecraft.
“Why, I’m sure you are,” said Glory. “What have you written that I might have read?”
“I doubt you’ve read any of my work,” said Howard. “It ain’t exactly written to the tastes of womenfolk.”
“I see.”
“Indeed, some would say that the pulp genre is hardly written even for the tastes of menfolk,” said Lovecraft, “but we who labor in the genre are part of a heroic and mythic tradition that hearkens hack to the earliest epic narratives.”
“And what’s your name again, honey?”
“Ahem—” During his momentary pause, Glory could see the back of his left ear begin to turn a bright red. “My name is Howard Phillips Lovecraft. At your service, ma’am.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Glory. “You boys are writers? Do you make it a habit of driving around the country picking fights and rescuing damsels in distress?”
“Beggin’ your pardon,” said Howard. “But you hardly look like a damsel to me, Miss.”
“I believe she was being figurative,” said Lovecraft. “It’s hardly appropriate to demean her after our expenditure of energy in her aid.”
“Well, ain’t you a donkey,” said Howard.
Lovecraft was silent for a moment, obviously puzzled. “Donkey?” he said.
“Donkey Oatey.”
“Donkey Oatey?”
“That’s right,” said Howard. “Or ain’t you as literate as you say?”
“Donkey Oatey,” Lovecraft repeated.
Glory laughed as much at the two peevish men as at the wit “You know that’s what I thought the first time I heard it too.”
“Excuse me, but what?” said Lovecraft.
“Slow,” said Howard. “That’s how lizards get when they’re cold. She means Don Quixote, HP. When I was a kid that’s how I heard his name.”
“This has become a rather circuitous insult,” said Lovecraft.
“And I don’t need you defending my honor or chastity-or whatever it is you think you’re defending,” said Glory. “And you, Robert E. Howard, greatest living pulp writer, just watch what you insinuate.”
“Well, Glory is,” said Howard. His foot seemed to grow suddenly heavy on the accelerator pedal, and the brief lurch threw Glory backward into her seat.
“Insinuate. Sinuous. Sssss. Snake,” said Lovecraft.
“What did you say, HP?”
Lovecraft was silent.
“Robert E. Howard Phillips Lovecraft,” said Glory, looking out of the side window at the dusty landscape blurring by. “You boys are joined at the hip, aren’t you?”
“What?” they said in unison.
“Nothing,” said Glory. “Nothing.” It was hardly an auspicious start, even if the ride was only to Vernon. Glory remained silent, and the interior of the car lapsed into the dull, surging roar of the wind. When Lovecraft opened the bottles of cold Coca-Cola and passed them around, he did it without a word.
LOVECRAFT ROTATED THE stub of his pencil to keep the point from wearing down on one side. He told himself, mentally, that he must remember to buy another pencil at their next stop. A fresh pencil smelling of cedar, the wood resistant to rot and insects. In his cramped script, he was jotting down his most current thoughts, and though he was still on edge from his recent adventure, he felt a calm satisfaction of knowing he had done a good deed. “On detour with Howard,” he wrote. “He continues to steal surreptitious glances at our not-unattractive, or perhaps she is better described as most subtly voluptuous and sensuous, temporary companion. Howard does not believe I notice him, and he continues this transparent charade, though our companion, G, herself, can hardly fail to notice. Perhaps she is encouraging him with her sidelong attentions.”
“What you writin’ there, HP?”
“I beg your pardon but it is none of your concern,” said Lovecraft. “You writin’ about me?”
“It is my journal. An account of my day’s thoughts and activities. You are part of such activity, as you must surely know.”
“You writin’ about her?”
Lovecraft closed the pages of his journal quickly over the pencil stub and looked over his shoulder at Glory’s smile.
“What are you writing about me, HP?” she asked, batting her eye lashes and coyly shrugging her shoulders.
“Yeah, HP, what are you writin’ about her? Anythin’ you’d care to share with us?”
“Certainly nothing you’d like to hear,” Lovecraft replied, his voice even more nasal than its usual pitch. He turned back to his journal and, perching on his seat, trying like some peevish child to put himself into the farthest possible front and right corner of the car, he absorbed himself once again in his writing until, after nearly half an hour of silence, he found his eyes growing tired.