“Yes, I'm getting it,” Garraty said. Up ahead a white station wagon with the words WHGH NEWSMOBILE lettered on the side was pulled off the road. As they drew near, a balding man in a shiny suit began shooting them with a big newsreel cine camera. Pearson, Abraham, and Jensen all clutched their crotches with their left hand and thumbed their noses with their right. There was a Rockette-like precision about this little act of defiance that bemused Garraty.
“I cried,” McVries said. “I cried like a baby. I got down on my knees and held her skirt and begged her to forgive me, and all the blood was getting on the floor, it was a basically disgusting scene, Garraty. She gagged and ran off into the bathroom. She threw up. I could hear her throwing up. When she came out, she had a towel for my face. She said she never wanted to see me again. She was crying. She asked me why I'd done that to her, hurt her like that. She said I had no right. There I was, Ray, with my face cut wide open and she's asking me why I hurt her.”
“Yeah.”
“I left with the towel still on my face. I had twelve stitches and that's the story of the fabulous scar and aren't you happy?”
“Have you ever seen her since?”
“No,” McVries said. “And I have no real urge to. She seems very small to me now, very far away. Pris at this point in my life is no more than a speck on the horizon. She really was mental, Ray. Something... her mother, maybe, her mother was a lush... something had fixed her on the subject of money. She was a real miser. Distance lends perspective, they say. Yesterday morning Pris was still very important to me. Now she's nothing. That story I just told you, I thought that would hurt. It didn't hurt. Besides, I doubt if all that shit really has anything to do with why I'm here. It just made a handy excuse at the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you here, Garraty?”
“I don't know.” His voice was mechanical, doll-like. Freaky D'Allessio hadn't been able to see the ball coming - his eyes weren't right, his depth perception was screwed - it had hit him in the forehead, and branded him with stitches. And later (or earlier... all of his past was mixed up and fluid now) he had hit his best friend in the mouth with the barrel of an air rifle. Maybe he had a scar like McVries. Jimmy. He and Jimmy had been playing doctor.
“You don't know,” McVries said. “You're dying and you don't know why.”
“It's not important after you're dead.”
“Yeah, maybe,” McVries said, “but there's one thing you ought to know, Ray, so it won't all be so pointless.”
“What's that?”
“Why, that you've been had. You mean you really didn't know that, Ray? You really didn't?”
CHAPTER 9
“Very good, Northwestern, now here is your ten-point tossup question.”
At one o'clock, Garraty took inventory again.
One hundred and fifteen miles traveled. They were forty-five miles north of Oldtown, a hundred and twenty-five miles north of Augusta, the state capital, one hundred and fifty to Freeport (or more... he was terribly afraid there were more than twenty-five miles between Augusta and Freeport), probably two-thirty to the New Hampshire border. And the word was that this Walk was sure to go that far.
For a long while - ninety minutes or so - no one at all had been given a ticket. They walked, they half-listened to the cheers from the sidelines, and they stared at mile after monotonous mile of piney woods. Garraty discovered fresh twinges of pain in his left calf to go with the steady, wooden throbbing that lived in both of his legs, and the low-key agony that was his feet.
Then, around noon, as the day's heat mounted toward its zenith, the guns began to make themselves heard again. A boy named Tressler, 92, had a sunstroke and was shot as he lay unconscious. Another boy suffered a convulsion and got a ticket as he crawdaddied on the road, making ugly noises around his swallowed tongue. Aaronson, 1, cramped up in both feet and was shot on the white line, standing like a statue, his face turned up to the sun in neck-straining concentration. And at five minutes to one, another boy Garraty did not know had a sunstroke.
This is where I came in, Garraty thought, walking around the twitching, mumbling form on the road where the rifles sight in, seeing the jewels of sweat in the exhausted and soon-to-be-dead boy's hair. This is where I came in, can't I leave now?
The guns roared, and a covey of high school boys sitting in the scant shade of a Scout camper applauded briefly.
“I wish the Major would come through,” Baker said pettishly. “I want to see the Major.”
“What?” Abraham asked mechanically. He had grown gaunter in the last few hours. His eyes were sunk deeper in their sockets. The blue suggestion of a beard patched his face.
“So I can piss on him,” Baker said.
“Relax,” Garraty said. “Just relax.” All three of his warnings were gone now.
“You relax,” Baker said. “See what it gets you.”
“You've got no right to hate the Major. He didn't force you.”
“Force me? FORCE me? He's KILLING me, that's all!”
“It's still not—”
“Shut up,” Baker said curtly, and Garraty shut. He rubbed the back of his neck briefly and stared up into the whitish-blue sky. His shadow was a deformed huddle almost beneath his feet. He turned up his third canteen of the day and drained it.
Baker said: “I'm sorry. I surely didn't mean to shout. My feet—”
“Sure,” Garraty said.
“We're all getting this way,” Baker said. “I sometimes think that's the worst part.”
Garraty closed his eyes. He was very sleepy.
“You know what I'd like to do?” Pearson said. He was walking between Garraty and Baker.
“Piss on the Major,” Garraty said. “Everybody wants to piss on the Major. When he comes through again we'll gang up on him and drag him down and all unzip and drown him in—”
“That isn't what I want to do.” Pearson was walking like a man in the last stages of conscious drunkenness. His head made half-rolls on his neck. His eyelids snapped up and down like spastic windowblinds. “It's got nothin' to do with the Major. I just want to go into the next field and lay down and close my eyes. Just lay there on my back in the wheat—”
“They don't grow wheat in Maine,” Garraty said. “It's hay.”
“—in the hay, then. And compose myself a poem. While I go to sleep.”
Garraty fumbled in his new foodbelt and found nothing in most of the pouches. Finally he happened on a waxpac of Saltines and began washing them down with water. “I feel like a sieve,” he said. “I drink it and it pops out on my skin two minutes later.”