Ghostlands

FIFTY-NINE

In these recent days of miracles and wonders, Garrett Lambert had seen some freaky things, truth to tell and no fish story, my man.

But it went without saying that the cobwebby dude sitting on the bench by the dead old train depot was right up there with the contenders.

“What’chu doin’ there, old-timer?” Garrett ambled up to him in the noonday sun only mad dogs and Englishmen would dare sashay out in. In his era, Garrett had been a pretty mad dog hisself, and once upon a time had been enough of a blueblood to pass for a Brit on a five-buck dare, if need be.

“Waiting for a train,” the old dude exhaled, his voice as silken and insubstantial as cobweb, too. His skin was pale, faded parchment locked away in a tomb, and his hair and clothes were leeched of all color, too, diseased somehow.

Garrett squinted hard at him; what with the glasses he’d misplaced in Laredo, and the four Dos Equis he’d quaffed as his morning Breakfast of Champions, he was having a hard time getting a lock on this particular member-in-good-standing of AARP. He seemed to go in and out of being, somehow; appeared MIA in the crevices and shadowy places of his face and form.

Bullshit. There was enough spookiness in this world without planting some where there wasn’t fresh manure.

“Ain’t no train passing through here, my friend.” Garrett came up close, so his body’d cast a shadow over the seated one, grant him some shade. “No train passing anywhere, come to mention it.”

The other rose then, like a heap of sticks conspiring themselves upright. Garrett was surprised to see that the old dude was taller than himself.

“Don’t I know it,” the old man sighed, again in that voice like a night wind passing.

“Where you goin’?” Garrett asked.

The old man looked out uncertainly beyond Garrett, at the orphaned land, and the flat horizon, and whatever mysteries lay beyond. For the first time, Garrett got a good look at the man’s eyes, saw they were pale white, too.

Sweet Lord of Contagions, he’s flat-ass blind.

“You got any people?” Garrett ventured, with growing concern.

“A boy…” the other answered vaguely, the sound all dust.

“He know where you are?”

“No…. But I know where he is.”

“Well, lemme just help you there,” Garrett said, stifling a fruity belch. Damn that fourth brew, and the damnation heat, and the friggin’ gnats that accompanied you everywhere, swarming like your own personal wedding veil. He extended a hand. “I’m Garrett Lambert.”

“Call me Marcus…” said the other, and though he was blind his hand reached out and clasped Garrett’s firmly.

It was all cobwebs, and dust and ashes, with not a living thing in it.

And as his life flowed out into this blind, ravenous seeker after one certain, most special boy, Garrett Lambert had time for just one final, piquant reflection….

Man, he’d thought that concert in ’68 with the Lizard King was pure stone weirdness.

But it wasn’t a patch on this.

In the time of early morning, Enid Blindman emerged out onto the porch of the house May Catches the Enemy had secured them outside Pine Ridge-part of the housing tract, she’d explained, that had been built after the twister had come through and cleared out the trailer park that had been on this land, just after the turn of the new century and before the Change. Since then, most of the people had cleared out, too, so there were plenty of places on which you could hang a VACANCY sign.

Enid found Papa Sky sitting patiently there, shaving a reed for his Selmer. He marveled as the old man’s fingers moved deftly from long practice, not needing the distraction of sight.

Enid settled next to him, began tuning his guitar.

“Pretty brisk for you to be out here,” he said.

“Hadda say me some goodbyes,” Papa Sky replied. “Ely went winging off back East.”

“I’da figgered you’da gone with him, the two of you being so long on the road and all.”

Papa Sky was quiet a bit, mulling the days of their time together. “Nah…. He needed some alone time to think on things, get comfortable with who he is ’stead of who he’s been.”

Enid gazed off past the low buildings to the gentle rise of the valley and the snow-dusted plain beyond. “Way I hear Cal tell it,” he said, “Stern was one mean hombre once upon a time. Took some major cojones, you takin’ on reforming him.”

“Well…” Papa Sky shook his head dismissively, then raised the Selmer to his lips and started in, mournful and lovely, on “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

Enid joined in, fingering the maple jumbo with complexity and grace, and Papa would’ve sworn it was Django if he didn’t know better, only even finer, truer still.

Finally, they came to a stopping place and let the last of the sweet sound drift off into the dawning air. A meadowlark trilled far off, answering their song with his own.

You gonna come clean, Old Man? Papa Sky asked himself. Or you just gonna let your axe do all your talkin’?

He felt his heart pounding like a kettledrum fit to burst. But he knew it wouldn’t, knew he had a good many years yet left in him, even if he could remember back to when the only sound movies had in them was what music you could make with your own two hands.

“Don’t you go thinkin’ I was no saint or nothin’, son,” Papa Sky said with a fierce rumble more intense than he intended. “I took on Ely Stern ’cause maybe I figgered, after all the wrong he done, all the folks he hurt, if he could earn a second chance…well, maybe I could, too.”

Then Papa Sky told Enid Blindman just who he was, and who Enid was, too.