It was a question I immediately regretted as Portis cast a grieving look in my direction.
“Clearly I have failed you,” he said. “Clearly I did not do enough to teach you what was important when I had the chance.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Who was the third president of the United States?”
“Thomas Jefferson,” he said. “Who was the fifth?”
“I forgot you knew the presidents,” I said.
“That’s only part of what I know,” he said. “And James Monroe was the fifth president of the United States.”
“Just pay attention,” I said. “I can barely tell where the road is.”
“And you wanted to drive.”
Portis leaned forward to wipe at some fog on the windshield and I could see that he was in the height of his glory. He had a smug half smile and clearly believed some critical victory had been won against me. I shook my head at Jenna.
“Don’t mind your uncle Portis,” I said. “He’s just old and sour at the world.”
“For your information,” he said. “Warren Zevon is only one of the greatest American songwriters of all time. In spite of the fact that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has yet to recognize his brilliance. But yet Madonna is enshrined there. As is ABBA.”
“Madonna was a bad-ass,” I said.
“Madonna tongued-kissed a black Jesus,” said Portis. “For which I credit her.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” he said. “Before your time. The point is, they can induct whoever they want into their ridiculous club, but do not expect me to take you seriously as an institution when you deny artists of Warren’s stature in favor of a disco scourge like Barry Gibb.”
I wanted to say something about the road in front of us, how more and more I couldn’t tell it from the shoulder. I wanted Portis to slow down, but feared angering him in earnest, which would only lead him to hammer the gas to spite me.
I held Jenna tight and wondered if it would be better or worse for her if I strapped myself in with a belt. The belt would protect me, but if there was an accident I worried the strap would strangle her.
I thought the best thing was to put the lap belt on and slip the shoulder strap behind me. I did so quickly, worried my precautions would offend Portis.
“He wrote a song called ‘Keep Me in Your Heart,’” Portis said. “It was right before he died of cancer. And I will tell you right now that song will hollow you out with its truth. You will feel as if a piece of your own heart has been carved away. And what did Barry Gibb do? Wore tight pants and made music for homosexuals, that’s what.”
I did not know what there was to say about Warren Zevon or Barry Gibb. I didn’t suppose there was anything I could say. I was just glad Portis had the wherewithal to issue such a rant without slurring. That was really the time to worry about Portis, when he started shaving the edges off his syllables and his words turned rounded and lazy and all slid together in a stew.
I held Jenna and let myself think of what I might do when we cleared the hills. We would take Jenna to the hospital, of course. Then I might grab that hot meal with Portis after all. Lunch at the Elias Brothers sounded pretty good, though what I really wanted was a shower and some sleep. I couldn’t wait to blast off the cold and the filth and then crawl beneath some heavy blankets and close my eyes. I would sleep for as long as I wanted, for as long as I could, and then I would wake and return for Carletta.
I had told Portis earlier I’d never come back to the hills, but even as I said it I knew it was a lie. I needed some rest, but I was no more comfortable leaving Mama than I was when I drove up Grain Road the night before.
I looked out at the Three Fingers and it was frozen where it cut through the pines and pooled. I thought about the white water down the hill and wondered how far north we were of Shelton’s. I was going to say something about it to Portis, about how far we’d come, when I felt the Ranger drop.
It was a bunny hop, really, the brief sense that we were falling before the truck hit the snow and we were pushed forward in our seats. I turned my shoulder toward the dash and smacked it hard, but I kept Jenna from the impact as best I could.
I bit down hard on my tongue and after the truck settled some from the jarring my mouth filled with blood and Jenna started to cry.
“Shit,” Portis said, and tapped the gas.
I could hear the tires spin and Portis put it in reverse, but the truck wouldn’t budge. I spit some blood on the floor and then looked over at him behind the wheel.
“We’re stuck,” he said.
The headlights were cast toward a small stand of birch, and between them and the trees there was deep, drifted snow. Portis tapped the gas and tried to rock us out again. He went from forward to reverse, then back to forward, but the tires only spun.
“I drove us off the road,” he said.
“I could get out and push,” I said.
Portis reached out and punched off the radio.