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JERRY'S ROADKILL by Trevor Scott Jerry Mahonny could only wonder why his brother was coming to California. He braced himself against the metal railing separating him from the passenger entranceway, watching for the first person to ascend the long, dark tunnel. Only the crazy or extremely frugal would take the red eye from Chicago to Fresno, he thought. Anyone who knew his brother would never consider him less than stable, yet trying to get him to buy a round of beer would be like asking a dog not to bark. Gazing out at the tarmac, he was surprised that the plane could even land in such thick fog. But most of it was now rising slowly to the sky, drifting up into nothingness as the rays of sun burned through it. Passengers finally slid up through the darkness with despondent stares as if they had just overcome a brush with death. He could imagine his brother, briefcase in hand, head cramped beneath the overhead storage bin, allowing everyone to exit before him. Holding himself back from outward complaint, his brother would never think of stepping in front of someone. Predictably, his brother William was the last to straggle down the dark tunnel. "William," Jerry said, reaching his hand to shake. William's grip was less than its normal impressive business squeeze. After piling a suitcase and garment bag into the back of Jerry's panel truck, they drove off. William seemed apprehensive. He had never been a conversationalist, but that was not it, Jerry knew. He was uneasy. Jerry had been glad when his brother asked to visit him on short notice. William never did anything spontaneously, so Jerry had not hesitated to welcome him. Perhaps his brother was starting to lighten up some. Pulling William away from work had always been difficult, but after college it had become nearly impossible. So this visit was mysterious if nothing else. They left the airport parking lot and quickly found the fastest way out of the city and onto California 99. In a few miles, a muffled voice spoke from a speaker under the dash. Jerry lowered the radio long enough for a dispatcher to give him directions over the CB. His brother glared at him, confused over what the woman had said. Jerry exited the four-lane at the next town and headed off onto an old sun-cracked paved road where the summer's grass had overrun the edges. In the fields on both sides of the road, posts and thick wire supported the lush green grape vines of a California merlot. After two miles the large panel truck, that had once been a faithful milk deliverer, pulled over onto the gravel and grass shoulder behind a silver Oldsmobile. Jerry slid the driver's door open, hopped out, and quickly slammed it shut. The sun had already transformed the morning air from fogged heat to an impending scorcher, and Jerry wanted to preserve as much cool air as possible. A stout woman between thirty-five and forty-five leaned against her Olds with her arms crossed. Her obtrusively flowered dress, pinks and shades of blue, flowed smoothly around her thick calves. Jerry slowly approached her, pushed his mirrored sunglasses farther up his nose, and tucked his Chicago Cubs T-shirt into his blue jeans. "Well? What do you have, Lady?" Jerry asked. "The dispatcher said something about a big dog-looking beast." "Do I look like a damn Vet?" she asked, her words coming out like spit acid. Her high nasally voice squeaked when she emphasized certain words. "I don't know what it is." She pointed her stubby finger around the front of the car. Jerry moved around the woman to see what she had killed. After working the San Joaquin Valley and surrounding hills and mountains for more than a year, there wasn't much that Jerry hadn't seen. Californians had strange pets with a penchant for escaping. Off to the side of the road, just barely in the grass, lay a large coyote with no visible injuries, other than the mangy coat. Jerry looked back at the woman and adjusted his glasses again against the rising sun. The large woman strode to the front of the car and pointed to the right front bumper. The car didn't have a scratch. Only a few pieces of gray hair stuck to the bumper in a tiny patch of blood. Jerry shifted his eyes back to the coyote in the ditch. The problem was the fur would be no good. It would be nowhere near prime for almost four months, he thought. "How much for that thing?" the woman said. "I should have just said the hell with it and drove off. But my luck some migrant grape worker would turn me in. Goddamn ingrates they are." Again, her words flew out like venom. Jerry pulled out a small black booklet from his left rear pants pocket, flipped through a few pages, ran his finger down a column, and then stopped. "Twenty-five bucks," he said routinuely. "This is highway robbery," she yelled, her thick arms flapping in the air, wiggling briskly with each motion. "The damn thing ran out in front of me...didn't even give me a chance to swerve." "The fine is fifty dollars," Jerry said. "Besides, this time of year I can't get a thing for a coyote." With a quick release of air, she said, "You take a check?" "Nope. Cash, Visa or Mastercard. Once in a while a Hungarian." She pulled the cash from her purse and slapped it into Jerry's hand, a disgusted look on her face. She squeezed back behind the wheel of her car mumbling something about Jerry's relationship with his mother, and then quickly pulled away. Jerry put on a pair of gloves, picked up the coyote by its back legs, and walked toward the truck with a smile on his face, as though he had won a stuffed animal at the county fair. The look on William's face would be a conversation piece for years at family reunions, should there ever be any. Jerry plopped the coyote into the back of the panel truck with a thud, and then hopped back behind the steering wheel. William looked at Jerry with great consternation. "What in the hell was that all about?" "Just business, brother. Just business." William twisted around in his chair and saw the coyote laying on its side with its tongue hanging out between long canine teeth, just inches from his Samsonite suitcase. "What's the matter, William? You never see a dead animal before?" "Just those birds that used to hit our front picture window, but nothing with huge teeth like that thing," William said. "Are you sure it's dead?" Jerry nodded. "Shit, that's nothing. A truck driver hit a black bear up in the mountains on his way back from China Peak last November. He didn't want anything to do with it, so he gave me a call. Damn thing was still alive when I got there. The man was high up in his cab with all the doors locked." Jerry laughed at the thought. William had a doubtful expression on his face. He knew Jerry's tricks and antics bordered on legendary back home as they were growing up. William had often questioned, verbally, whether Jerry came from the same parents. Jerry knew his brother had to be thinking this story was bullshit. Silence pervaded the cab of Jerry's truck, and the smell of iron-rich blood brought a wrinkle to William's nose. Thank God for good air conditioning and the old refrigeration, Jerry thought. Without those, brother William would end up barfing all over his truck. Jerry pulled away from the side of the road and started driving back toward Highway 99. He was being somewhat aloof, he knew. Yet, his brother had always nurtured the mundane, while he had always found a way to perpetuate the discomfort of these situations. Finally, when William could hold back no longer, he said, "What ever happened to the nice teaching job you had in Merced?" Jerry glanced sideways at his brother and pulled his glasses down to expose his eyes. "Nice teaching job?" he asked. "Now there are three words that clearly do not belong together. Obviously you don't have the slightest fucking idea how California teenagers react to Chaucer. This isn't Forest Hills Academy. We're talking major rebellion here, brother. Not the kind like you and your friends petitioning the board for casual Fridays." Jerry shook his head and leaned his arms across the large steering wheel like a trucker would do on a long haul. "So, you quit then?" Jerry thought for a moment. There might be a return flight to Chicago. Or a bus. "I'm an entrepreneur. Started my own business over a year ago." "What business?" William screeched. "You pick up deceased animals alongside the road. How in God's name is that profitable? Or respectable, for that matter." "Roadkill, William, roadkill. Call it what it is." Silence enveloped the cab again. William looked over his shoulder. The tongue way still there. Mocking him. "I suppose if I'm not some big-time CPA from Chicago then I'm not a success. Is that it?" Jerry asked. William started to answer and then stopped. Finally he said, "We just chose different paths." "Frost chose a different path, and so did I. Profitable! Christ almighty. If the balance sheet doesn't have a plus sign at the end, then you might as well slit your wrists." There was silence again. Only the sound of rubber on pavement. "I sometimes wish I could be more of a free spirit like you, Jerry. But my mind won't let my body react that way. I've tried alcohol. You know that. My mind doesn't even want that to loosen me up." Jerry looked straight ahead. After a mile of silence, he turned back onto the freeway and headed north. Time should change things, he knew, but people rarely change without significant reason. And the insignificance of William's bland existence was inconceivable, yet real nonetheless. North of Madera, Jerry turned off the freeway again and started heading west into the heart of the San Joaquin Valley. After a few miles, he turned onto a dirt road and drove up a hill to a small brick house with a red clay roof. Jerry looked to his brother. "This is home." "Looks nice." "Can you get your bags, William? I want to get that coyote out of the heat before it spoils." "No problem." William got the bags out and got to the front door of his brother's house. He stopped and dropped the bags to the porch and turned just in time to see Jerry rounding the corner of the house with his prize catch of the day. "Jerry.... Shit!" He turned to observe the vista from the front yard. The valley stretched out for miles in all directions. The view to the south was a breathtaking pattern of irrigated vineyards and natural grama grass over smooth rolling hills. To the southwest, the mountains of the Diablo Range rose high above the valley floor. His eyes focused on closer items in Jerry's yard. There were bunches of flowers, trees and shrubs, and even rocks that he had never seen before. It was as if he had gone to a parallel earth and not simply another state. After a few minutes, Jerry opened the front door from inside and stepped out to the porch. "Nice view, hey?" Jerry asked. "You can't even see this far from the Sears Tower." They went inside. The grand tour didn't take long. It was a small two bedroom with an upper loft. The large living room with oak parquet floors and stone fireplace occupied most of the floor space. A bear rug lay just in front of the fireplace. The kitchen was actually part of the living room--just an alcove to the side. William sat on the white leather sofa and looked at all the animals adorning the walls. There was a ten-point buck, a havalina head with snarling teeth, and, coiled into a striking position on the fireplace mantel, a rattlesnake sat ready to strike. Jerry picked up the phone and punched in a programmed number. He looked cautiously at his brother. "Joni? Hi. Yes, it was a coyote. She was a bitch to me, too. Twenty-five bucks. Yeah, I'll be by in an hour or so. Use the Roadrunner's Revenge recipe tonight for the dinner menu. Thanks. I'll see you in a bit. Bye." William had raised his brows quizzically to much of the conversation. "We're not so different, William." Jerry stared at his brother for a moment looking for even a touch of approval. Nothing. William hesitated, then spoke softly, "Roadrunner's Revenge recipe?" "Are you really curious, or are you simply looking for fuel once you return to Chicago?" "Aren't we the skeptic," William said, reaching to the floor and touching the black bear's fur, then pulling his hand back quickly. "Really, I could give a shit what people in Chicago think," Jerry said. "And mother and father?" "They don't give a shit what I do." "Yes, they do!" William said, rising from the sofa, his hands on his hips. "Finally. The truth, brother William," Jerry said, gazing directly into his brother's eyes. "Ma and Pa Mahonny sent your ass all the way out here to see if I've lost my marbles? Is that it?" William looked away from him. Lying was never one of William's strongest traits. His left eye twitched uncontrollably. "Or should I say Pa sent you on this mission from God?" "He suggested...suggested that I come out to see you. That's all." "Dad never suggests anything," Jerry reminded his brother. "Either you do it, or as he would say, 'You can forget about ever getting any money from him.' Well you can go back and tell that arrogant bastard I don't want any of his money." William's face turned red with anger. "Jerry! How can you be so indignant?" "I've had a lot of practice. Time to think." William rubbed the stubble on his face. Jerry realized that it was probably the first time he had ever seen him without a clean-shaven face. And only the night flight had made that possible. "Do you suppose there's any chance of us getting along?" Jerry asked. William looked at him cautiously, but he couldn't speak. "We do have a few things in common, you know," Jerry said. "Same parents Same boring Lake Forest rearing. Same DNA. Same house." Then Jerry thought for a moment and realized that's about all they really had in common. Memories. "Why do you always have to be so radical?" William finally asked. "Define radical." "You could have been a lawyer," William explained. "Yes, Pa would have liked my following in his footsteps." "But, teaching?" "I know, brother William. Teaching is about as honorable as a used car salesman, but someone has to do it." "At least you came to your senses about that," William said with a release of air. Jerry shook his head. "What's with you people? If you're not totally controlling everything I do, you feel as though you haven't accomplished your pious duty of conversion. Well, I'm sorry I can't live my life to Dad's expectations. But I'm not some squeamish robot that twitches in response to every click of some remote control. Can't you see that?" "So you're doing this to spite him," William said. "This is what I am, William." "Dead animals on the side of the road?" "Roadkill! Fucking roadkill!" "Roadkill is what you have become?" "That's right. Cast away as though one would flick a cigarette out a car window," Jerry said. "Forgotten until the next time you drive by and see the rotting corpse laying in the ditch, eyes pecked away by crows. Until all that is left is a puff of fur, bones, and a soul that floats and lingers in a howling wind. What more can any man expect from life or death? We are what we eat. So go back and tell your Ma, and especially Pa, what I have become. A lonely roadkill merchant with a restaurant that serves Roadrunner's Revenge for the daily special. Nothing more. Nothing less." There was nothing left for either of them to say. Jerry had wanted things to turn out differently. Perhaps that was impossible given the circumstances. William called the airport for information on the next flight to Chicago. He would have to wait until later that afternoon, and agreed he would do so at the airport. Jerry drove him without either saying a word the entire trip. As he shook William's hand through the window of the truck in the airport parking lot, Jerry felt an even weaker grip than when his brother first arrived. It was as if some of his strength had seeped out of him as the soul seeps from the corpse. The dying and the living were only an aberration of time and circumstances. And the time for living was far less obscure with distance. |
