Zoetrope: All-Story Extra

With November comes the ice wind and the dying grass, and the western window condenses with moisture. Each day I watch the shadows creep-crawl over Cottonwood Road; each day they claim more ground. And with the passing of New Year, the moisture will freeze and Father's pumps will disappear from view.

My hot breath clears a circle in the ice. But it's a momentary circle. For even now, the crystals seal me in and the wind and the grass and the pumps fade away.

Yet there's time enough to see what I see. And so there are no cars at Father's pumps and there are no cars on Cottonwood Road and the light above Cottonwood Road is now red.

Father's face turns soft the way it gets when he's confused. He says, "Woodcocks? Who the hell are the Woodcocks?" And it's not yet clear if this is cause for alarm. The Woodcocks, after all, have been coming for three years. Three years and Father can't remember their names. To his credit, though, names were Mother's responsibility and his shortcomings might be throwback to habit. Regardless, I haven't the patience or the heart to explain the Woodcocks again: who they are and where they are from. And it's just my luck that the bell on our door ding-a-lings and a customer stomps in with his heavy boots. Father lowers his head and wipes, diligent, a piece of counter. Our customer ponders the soda cooler.

I've not seen this man before but I know him well. He's a Stray, as Mother called them: travelers who drive up from the Interstate searching for gas. Inevitably the ones who get themselves in trouble on their cross-country treks, pushing forward on empty, praying for the next town in a stretch of world where there is no next town. Our store is two miles off the Interstate. We sit alone at the dusty intersection where Old 14 meets Cottonwood Road. Not a soul in his right mind would make the detour if it weren't necessary.

The Stray decides on a Coke. He hesitates, contemplates selections he may have overlooked, then lands it on the counter with his payment for the gas. Father takes the cash (exact change) without raising his eyes. He wipes at the problem spot ‘til the customer is out the door and his car disappears down Cottonwood.

The ice wind thuds against the western window. The grass lies flat to the earth. The creep-crawling shadows inch closer and the light above Cottonwood Road is still red.

With the Woodcocks on their way I've a lot on my mind. It's all I can do to focus on my chores.

The Spam belongs on the shelf with the refried beans. The Cheetos go with the Fritos and not the Tostitos. And never ever ever mix the extra-spicy jerky with the extra-mild. My chores are not hard, but there's responsibility.

Except for the Stray, Cottonwood Road remains empty. The eighteen-wheelers that scream past the store on Old 14 will never stop here. 14 carries them West through the yellow fields and over the horizon towards bigger and faster roads, and towards, I've been told, bigger and faster stations.

I follow the gleam of a gasoline truck down Old 14. On the clearest of days, if I squint past the pumps, past Cottonwood, past the fields, I'll catch the form of a mighty tree sprouting up from the ground where Old 14 touches the horizon. I once, in a fit of excitement, informed Father of this discovery.

"You've got one helluva ‘magination." Father said. And he lowered his eyes from the western horizon.

We don't see another customer until well after lunch.

When I first see the car on Cottonwood, I want to yell "Woodcocks! The Woodcocks are here!" And it's good that I don't because it's just Mr. Greeley returning early from Denver.

This is out of character for Mr. Greeley. Every two weeks, Friday mornings, he gasses up at our store and heads for the Interstate. But he generally returns late Sunday evenings, long after I've retired to bed. He has a sister in Denver, his only living relative, and I've never known him to miss a trip.

Mr. Greeley lives in Fairview, nine miles north along Cottonwood Road. It's the only town on Cottonwood and the closest town to us. Most of our customers are from Fairview.

A loud thump above my head and Father storms down the stairs from his bedroom.

"That man'll want gas," he says.

"That's Mr. Greeley," I say, or think I say, as I grab my jacket and open the door. Father always wants me waiting by the pumps when the regulars drive by. He thinks it's good for business.

I open the door and step into a different world. The ice wind sweeps the frozen landscape, penetrates my wool jacket, flattens my hair. The creep-crawling shadows have closed the gap between our store. The lights have not yet changed.

The lights have not yet changed, but I know the entire routine by heart. Mr. Greeley will wait thirty seconds while the eighteen-wheelers race by on 14.

The light on 14 turns yellow.

The light turns red.

But five seconds will pass before the light above Cottonwood Road turns green. For five seconds, the intersection will be guarded in all directions by two red eyes glaring down at the roads, at the cars, at the store, at me. Five full seconds and nothing moves: the ice wind quits pounding on our store, the dry blades of grass stand tall and still, and I hold my breath, sure that the heart in my chest will stop in submission to the fierce eyes.

But the light does turn green, and my heart continues to beat.

Greeley's brown Dodge stops at pump number two, his arrival announced by the squealing of breaks.

"How much?" I say.

"Ten dollars," says Greeley.

I unscrew the gas cap and insert the cold metal nozzle. Already my fingers ache like nothing I know. I bite my lip, wait for the throbbing to pass. It always does if I give it time.

Greeley exits the Dodge in painful installments: a foot, a chin, a shoulder, a hip. He's a thin man with thin skin. A wool hat covers a full head of hair; the hat is brown. There is something different about him this afternoon. Stale jerky, I think, though I can't imagine why.

I attempt idle chat. "How's your sister?"

Greeley takes off his hat and sets it on the hood of the Dodge. I will regret this question, I can already tell. He glances over my head. Perhaps he sees Father through the frosty window but I don't dare turn to look. At last, he puts a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. It isn't cold and bony like most old hands that have been placed on my shoulder; Greeley's is warm and strong.

"Son," he says. "That was my last trip to Denver."

His fingers tighten their grip.

"My sister has moved on to a better place."

"Where?" I say. And I am already thinking she moved to New York because I know the Woodcocks like New York.

"Where?" says Greeley, and he looks me in the eye. "An important question indeed."

I sense he's talking more to himself than to me.

"Nobody knows exactly where," he says. He blinks twice, flicks an icicle from his eye. "But I'd like to believe it's a good place, a place where she'll always be well."

The weight of these words falls upon me like an evening shadow. These are familiar words to me. And so I say, "Is Mother there too?" Which is precisely the type of question that makes Father angry.

But Greeley isn't angry. "Of course she is, son. If that's what you believe." Greeley gives me a wink.

"This place," I say, "Is it past the lights?"

Greeley looks puzzled. "That place is not of this earth," he says. He waits for my reaction before correcting himself. "Yes, I'm sure it's past the lights."

"Will they be back?" I say.

"Well," says Greeley. Cautious.

"Mother's coming back as an actress," I say. "And live in the city."

Greeley's eyes widen. "That's enough!" He yells.

I flinch at the sound. My arms go up on instinct.

"The gas, son – that's enough."

The gas. I glance up to see the numbers on the pump roll from thirteen ninety-nine to fourteen dollars. I release the nozzle. My heart beats in my throat. I'll never be allowed to pump again.

But Greeley isn't mad.

With another wink, he hands me a ten and a five. He folds himself into the Dodge and rolls down the window and summons me over. I approach the car, timid.

"Son, there are those who believe we do come back. Your mother believed so and she was a smart woman." A hand appears from the car to ruffle my hair. I step back.

"Have faith son. Don't let your Father deprive you of that." Mr. Greeley rolls up the window and drives up Cottonwood Road towards Fairview. The forgotten hat flutters about on the hood of the Dodge before the ice wind sweeps it up. I leap into action, arms outstretched. I tear past the pumps and across the gravel lot. The hat soars high into the air, flips and rolls and tosses about as if it had wings of its own. But just as quickly, it drops dead in the fields beyond Cottonwood road. And my toes fall short of where the gravel meets the asphalt.

"If you lay as much as one toe on either road," Father always says, "I'll kill you myself if a semi don't kill you first."

The warmth of the store stings my cheeks. "Boy!" says Father. He is yelling. "That man's got places to go. What's you got to say to him that's so important?"

I don't respond. My hand throbs once again.

"Well it looks like you don't got nothin to say at all," Father says.

But this isn't true and a hot tear crawls down my face.

"Is Mother coming back?" I say.

Father's mouth opens, poised on a word. He wants to say something, anything. But in the end he turns to the western window. He stares at the frost for a long time, his square back planted before me.

"Mother is gone boy." His voice trembles: something I've never heard before. "She is gone, and she ain't never coming back."

He wants to say something else. I wait. But then his shoulders slant down and his head drops forward and the light over Cottonwood Road is now red and the light over Old 14 is now red.

After lunch, I insist on skipping my nap in case the Woodcocks arrive.

"Woodcocks?" says Father.

Here we go again.

"Who the hell are the Woodcocks?"

Every winter for three years now, the Woodcocks have stopped at our store in their blue Chevy Blazer with the skis on top. They vacation out in Colorado for the holidays and return every year on January second.

Today is January second.

They have two sons. Daniel is my age, Brian is two years older. They both like jerky a lot; Daniel eats the hot and spicy while Brian always chooses the mild. Mrs. Woodcock is loud.

"All New Yorkers talk this way," her husband once explained. She yells at the boys for running in the store. She yells if they take too much time at the soda cooler. She yells at her husband because of his driving. "I'm a perfectly good driver." Mr. Woodcock will say.

Of the four, I like Mr. Woodcock the best. He is not from New York. "Yep, I grew up around here," he'll say as he stretches his back and scans the fields of yellow grass. The memories.

But Mr. Woodcock seems to like New York and his loud wife.

"Will Mother go to New York?" I say aloud.

"What did you say boy?" Father is yelling again. He doesn't like such talk. "What the hell's Mother got to do with the Woodcocks?"

"The Woodcocks are from New York." I say. Father's face becomes soft again. I try to explain. "Mother said she'd go to New York and Mr. Greeley said she was smart."

Father understands but he doesn't. His lips curl into a smile but his eyes frown. He begins to laugh. Eager, I laugh back.

"My God!" says Father, not to God or to me or to anyone in particular. "I've been exposing my boy to fools. I try to teach him what's right but does he listen to me?"

"Father," says I, breaking the news," Mr. Greeley's sister is gone."

Father lowers his head and looks away. "Boy," he says, "that old man's sister, God rest her soul, died when you were but a few years old. Yet every two weeks he drives into Denver and every two weeks that poor nurse at the hospital has to tell him, all politely, that his sister's been dead for years.

"But he won't listen to nobody, you see. And you can bet that in two weeks time he'll be drivin' back to Denver to get his poor ol' heart broken again."

I lean my back against the wall. I want Father to smile and tell me its all a joke.

"And as for this business of past and future lives, let me tell you somethin' and you listen real good." He takes a deep breath. "Your mother believed she was a princess in a past life and she believed she'd be back to live another great life after this. And you know what boy? There's lots of people who aren't satisfied with the life they're livin' and so they goes and believes they was once someone great. You followin' this?"

I try to respond, but father isn't finished.

"And I bet anyone who says they was once someone else is gonna pick someone famous. They gonna pick someone they admires. That's right boy, ain't never been a fool in this whole fool world gone and said they clerked an ol' gas station on Cottonwood Road. Y'understand what I'm getting at?"

I nod my head, mostly because I don't want to hear anymore. Father wants to continue but something distracts him from outside the window.

And the light over Cottonwood Road is now green.

I stand by pump number two, nozzle in hand, as the Blue Chevy Blazer rolls through the intersection. The low winter sun is setting just behind the lights, casting two thin shadows across the grass like the bony fingers of those men in Fairview. The shadows will reach the pumps before the Woodcocks leave. And then those dying fingers will wrap themselves around the store until the sun drops below the horizon.

The Woodcocks park at my pump. Four doors swing open at once: an explosion of activity and confusion. Everyone yells at everyone else. Daniel and Brian argue over a seat. Mrs. Woodcock yells at Mr. Woodcock about gas. Mr. Woodcock yells at the boys because he can't hear the yells of his wife.

"I get it," says Daniel.

"No, I get it," says Brian.

"I get it," says Daniel.

And Mrs. Woodcock darts around the hood of the Blazer. "Hon, if you could just plan ahead."

"I did plan ahead," says Mr. Woodcock. "I knew we'd find gas."

"Five miles off the Interstate?"

"It was more like two."

Daniel and Brian have elaborated.

"You got it last time," says Daniel.

"My legs are longer," says Brian.

"You got it last time," says Daniel.

"Will you boys knock it off!" says Mr. Woodcock. Of course, they don't.

"Someday," says the Missus, "We won't be so lucky. We'll get stranded in the middle of nowhere."

"We are in the middle of nowhere," he says.

"But this happens every time," she says.

She turns to the boys and the boys shut up. "Let's try to make this quick," she says. The brothers race to the store. Daniel opens the door and Brian shoves him out of the way.

"Well?" says Mrs. Woodcock. "Do I have to pump this myself?"

My face burns red. I've been too overwhelmed to remember my duties. Quickly, I open the gas cap and insert the nozzle. I know from experience they'll want the gas topped off.

"Fill it to the top," says Mrs. Woodcock, suspicious. And then she turns to her husband. "I'll go in and pay, what do you want?"

He thinks for a moment. "A Coke."

Mrs. Woodcock marches into the store with an unbroken stride. The door swings shut, followed by a calm. I stand next to Mr. Woodcock and listen to the rush of gasoline. The fumes mix with the frozen air and burn my nostrils: a comforting feeling. Mr. Woodcock smiles at me and stretches his back.

"Are there famous people in New York?" I say.

Mr. Woodcock is startled by the question. So, too, am I. He watches me, curious, intrigued.

"How'd you know we're from New York?" he says. "Do our accents give us away?"

And then he takes a closer look at me. A hint of recognition washes across his face. I wait, anxious.

"Oh, I wasn't thinking," he says. "You must have seen our license plates."

"No," says I. "Mrs. Woodcock talks funny because she was born in New York."

Mr. Woodcock does not respond. His eyes puzzle over something, his mouth moves without words. The pump clicks off.

"Twenty-two dollars and ninety-nine cents," I say.

But he doesn't seem to hear. "You said Mrs. Woodcock."

I nod.

"That's our name," he says.

I nod again.

He scratches his chin. He wants to say something but his wife opens the door.

"How much is the gas?" she yells.

Mr. Woodcock checks the pump. "Twenty-two ninety-nine."

But his wife puts her hands on her hips, annoyed.

"Can't you tell the kid to pump one more cent so it comes out even?"

"It doesn't matter hon," he says. "You're also buying Cokes."

"I just want it to be even," she says "is that so wrong?"

Mr. Woodcock smiles and turns to me. "You better pump another cent."

As I pump, Mr. Woodcocks yells to his wife. "Hey hon. Guess what the kid said."

She waits at the door, impatient.

"We've been here before. Isn't that something?"

"Well, isn't that something?" she yells back. "So we've made this detour before."

She disappears into the store.

Our bell ding-a-lings. The door bursts open and the brothers run over to the Blazer. Brian triumphantly hops behind the passenger seat while Daniel takes the other with a pout. Mrs. Woodcock marches around the car and slides in front.

"Who knows?" says Mr. Woodcock to me. "We may even see you next year, knowing my habits." He finds this amusing and laughs to himself as he steps into the Blazer.

"Are there famous people in New York?" I try again, as he grabs the car door.

"Pardon me?" he says.

"Oh please," says his wife, "Let's get on the road."

Mr. Woodcock ignores her. "Sure, there are famous people in New York."

"Someday, I want to be famous," I say.

Mr. Woodcock conceals a smile. "Being famous wouldn't be so great. You'd never have any privacy." He looks over my head at the fields of yellow grass. "I think you'd be happier living out here."

"That's enough. Can we please go?" says the Missus.

Mr. Woodcock pulls on the Blazer door.

"Only the famous come back," I yell. But the door slams tight.

And the sun hovers just above the western horizon. The shadows creep and they crawl over the intersection until they land on a pair of shoes. They are my shoes.

I stand at the corner of our property, at the corner of my world. I've placed my toes against the intersection where the gravel meets the asphalt in a neat square angle.

In front of me, the Blazer waits idly below the lights. Four friendly smiles watch me through tinted windows. I return the smile, take a small step. The asphalt feels hard and unforgiving beneath my shoe. Any moment, it seems, the Woodcocks will invite me into the car and take me away. But the light over Old 14 turns yellow and their smiles turn to the Interstate.

The light turns red and still no invitation.

I hold my breath.

The eighteen-wheelers moan and come to a halt. The red eyes tower above. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound. Five seconds, I say to myself, it will all be over in five seconds. But as usual, I'm not so sure. Already, it seems like thirty seconds have passed. One minute, two minutes.

But like always, it doesn't happen that way. The Blazer revs its engine and passes through the intersection. The five seconds have passed, the Woodcocks have gone. I raise my eyes to the traffic lights but the red ball of the setting sun has swallowed them whole. As the sun sets, it swells until it encompasses the whole of the western sky. It kisses the horizon right where Old 14 disappears.

And in this moment, the black silhouette of a tree sprouts up from the ground. Its crooked branches, magnified a hundred fold, reach out to the perimeter of the fiery ball like cracks on a porcelain plate. Small flames flicker down the branches and spread to the fields. Soon the entire landscape from the horizon to Cottonwood Road is ablaze.

For an instant, the mighty branches of the tree strain to support the ball above the horizon. But the struggle abruptly ends. The tree disappears into the darkness as a cool shadow trickles over the ground to extinguish the flames from the dying grass.