He woke to night again. The same full moon was shining, although the Model T had pulled off the road and was parked beneath a tree, so that the full strength of the moonlight did not fall upon him. He worried rather feebly if this might be the same night or a different night, and there was no way for him to tell, although, he told himself, it didn’t make much difference. So long as the moon was shining and he had the Model T and a road for it to run on, there was nothing more to ask, and which night it was had no consequence.
The young people who had been with him were no longer there, but the saxophone was laid upon the floorboards, and when he pulled himself erect, he heard a gurgle in his pocket, and upon investigation, pulled out the moonshine bottle. It still was better than half-full, and from the amount of drinking that had been done, that seemed rather strange.
He sat quietly behind the wheel, looking at the bottle in his hand, trying to decide if he should have a drink. He decided that he shouldn’t, and put the bottle back into his pocket, then reached down and got the saxophone and laid it on the seat beside him.
The Model T stirred to life, coughing and stuttering. It inched forward, somewhat reluctantly, moving from beneath the tree, heading in a broad sweep for the road. It reached the road and went bumping down it. Behind it a thin cloud of dust, kicked up by its wheels, hung silver in the moonlight.
Hank sat proudly behind the wheel, being careful not to touch it. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back. He felt good—the best he’d ever felt. Well, maybe not the best, he told himself, for back in the time of youth, when he was spry and limber and filled with the juice of hope, there might have been some times when he felt as good as he felt now. His mind went back, searching for the times when he’d felt as good, and out of olden memory came another time, when he’d drunk just enough to give himself an edge, not as yet verging into drunkenness, not really wanting any more to drink, and he’d stood on the gravel of the Big Spring parking lot, listening to the music before going in, with the bottle tucked inside his shirt, cold against his belly. The day had been a scorcher, and he’d been working in the hayfield, but now the night was cool, with fog creeping up the valley, carrying that indefinable scent of the fat and fertile land; and inside, the music playing, and a waiting girl who would have an eye out for the door, waiting for the moment he came in.
It had been good, he thought, that moment snatched out of the maw of time, but no better than this moment, with the car running on the ridgetop road and all the world laid out in the moonlight. Different, maybe, in some ways, but no better than this moment.
The road left the ridgetop and went snaking down the bluff face, heading for the valley floor. A rabbit hopped across the road, caught for a second in the feeble headlights. High in the nighttime sky, invisible, a bird cried out, but that was the only sound there was, other than the thumping and the clanking of the Model T.
The car went skittering down the valley, and here the moonlight often was shut out by the woods that came down close against the road.
Then it was turning off the road, and beneath its tires he heard the crunch of gravel, and ahead of him loomed a dark and crouching shape. The car came to a halt, and sitting rigid in the seat, Hank knew where he was.
The Model T had returned to the dance pavilion, but the magic was all gone. There were no lights, and it was deserted. The parking lot was empty. In the silence, as the Model T shut off its engine, he heard the gushing of the water from the hillside spring running into the watering trough.
Suddenly he felt cold and apprehensive. It was lonely here, lonely as only an old remembered place can be when all its life is gone. He stirred reluctantly and climbed out of the car, standing beside it, with one hand resting on it, wondering why the Model T had come here and why he’d gotten out.
A dark figure moved out from the front of the pavilion, an undistinguishable figure slouching in the darkness.
“That you, Hank?” a voice asked.
“Yes, it’s me,” said Hank.
“Christ,” the voice asked, “where is everybody?”
“I don’t know,” said Hank. “I was here just the other night. There were a lot of people then.”
The figure came closer. “You wouldn’t have a drink, would you?” it asked.
“Sure, Virg,” he said, for now he recognized the voice. “Sure, I have a drink.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle. He handed it to Virg. Virg took it and sat down on the running board. He didn’t drink right away, but sat there cuddling the bottle.
“How you been, Hank?” he asked. “Christ, it’s a long time since I seen you.”
“I’m all right,” said Hank. “I drifted up to Willow Bend and just sort of stayed there. You know Willow Bend?”
“I was through it once. Just passing through. Never stopped or nothing. Would have if I’d known you were there. I lost all track of you.”
There was something that Hank had heard about Old Virg, and felt that maybe he should mention it, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was, so he couldn’t mention it.
“Things didn’t go so good for me,” said Virg. “Not what I had expected. Janet up and left me, and I took to drinking after that and lost the filling station. Then I just knocked around from one thing to another. Never could get settled. Never could latch onto anything worthwhile.”
He uncorked the bottle and had himself a drink.
“Good stuff,” he said, handing the bottle back to Hank.
Hank had a drink, then sat down on the running board alongside Virg and set the bottle down between them.
“I had a Maxwell for a while,” said Virg, “but I seem to have lost it. Forgot where I left it, and I’ve looked everywhere.”
“You don’t need your Maxwell, Virg,” said Hank. “I have got this Model T.”
“Christ, it’s lonesome here,” said Virg. “Don’t you think it’s lonesome?”
“Yes, it’s lonesome. Here, have another drink. We’ll figure what to do.”
“It ain’t good sitting here,” said Virg. “We should get out among them.”
“We’d better see how much gas we have,” said Hank. “I don’t know what’s in the tank.”
He got up and opened the front door and put his hand under the front seat, searching for the measuring stick. He found it and unscrewed the gas-tank cap. He began looking through his pockets for matches so he could make a light.
“Here,” said Virg, “don’t go lighting any matches near that tank. You’ll blow us all to hell. I got a flashlight here in my back pocket. If the damn thing’s working.”
The batteries were weak, but it made a feeble light. Hank plunged the stick into the tank, pulled it out when it hit bottom, holding his thumb on the point that marked the topside of the tank. The stick was wet almost to his thumb.
“Almost full,” said Virg. “When did you fill it last?”
“I ain’t never filled it.”
Old Virg was impressed. “That old tin lizard,” he said, “sure goes easy on the gas.”
Hank screwed the cap back on the tank, and they sat down on the running board again, and each had another drink.
“It seems to me it’s been lonesome for a long time now,” said Virg. “Awful dark and lonesome. How about you, Hank?”
“I been lonesome,” said Hank, “ever since Old Bounce up and died on me. I never did get married. Never got around to it. Bounce and me, we went everywhere together. He’d go up to Brad’s bar with me and camp out underneath a table; then, when Brad threw us out, he’d walk home with me.”