“Oh, Nate’s pretty focused himself. I don’t think he’d do the trade. He’s got a wife and two girlfriends. He carries around three cell phones. I’m going to write ‘All contents broken’ on each of these dishpacks with the artifacts. Are you OK with that? You’re going to have to sign it that way.”
“Fine. The meaning of them all died with my husband. Not even the Indians know what they mean. It’s all from trash piles made three thousand years ago. They were a different people back then. It’s like when Charlton Heston found that doll in Planet of the Apes. Make sure you put the artifact boxes at the very end of the load. They have to come off first, OK?”
“OK.”
“It’s very important they come off first. Don’t mess it up.”
“Yes, Mrs. McMahon. I’ll make sure. I won’t mess it up.”
I went to work. Kevin went to work. My crew was at work. Mrs. McMahon staggered back to her sofa and grabbed a full-face oxygen mask connected to a smaller tank.
Mrs. McMahon slept on and off most of the day and evening on her sofa. She didn’t roam the house with her extra-long hose to check on my crew, but she did have a sardonic comment whenever any of the men passed through the living room. I think it took everything she had just to breathe. We finished loading at nine thirty that night. The house was empty and the truck was full. So full we had to strap the patio table to the back door of the trailer. The crew filed inside to say good-bye. Nate, who’d been yammering with Mrs. McMahon most of the day, tapped her gently on the shoulder. Mrs. McMahon woke up.
“Ma’am, we’re done. Did it all today, just like you wanted. Good luck to you.”
“Nice job, gentlemen. I thank you.” She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. “This is three hundred and fifty dollars. That’s fifty for each man. Split it up in front of me, Nate, and hand it out. Mr. Finn will get his tip if he beats me to New Mexico. You sure you don’t want to trade your body for my brain there, Nate?”
“If there was a way to share both, ma’am, I’d do it. I could use some brains, and your body sure as shit is wearin’ out.”
“Nate!” I cut in.
“You leave Nate alone, Mr. Finn. We’re family.”
“OK, Mrs. M. You’re the boss.”
“I’m always the boss. You gentlemen take care of yourselves. You Spaniards or whatever you are—learn some English! You’re going to be an embarrassment to your kids. You don’t want that.”
“You sure don’t,” Kevin said. He was exhausted too, but smiling.
I did the three hundred miles that night. I-80 through Pennsylvania is a horrible 311 miles of construction zones. It’s just like I-40 east out of California. The roadwork never ends; it’s orange cones and steep hills the whole way and a nightmare at night. In a way it’s worse than the Rocky Mountains: sure, the Rockies have hills, but the Rockies aren’t that wide. They’re maybe seventy miles, so they eventually end. In Pennsylvania the hills never quit. One late night a few years ago, on I-80 outside of Clarion, I saw a big truck off to the side of the road, catty-corned. It didn’t look right. I pulled over, stopped, and walked up to the truck. The windshield was smashed and I saw the leg of a deer hanging over the hood. Where the driver was supposed to be I saw the deer’s head. Everything was perfectly still and quiet. I didn’t look any further. I saw police lights coming around the bend so I knew someone had already called it in, so I left. I knew what had happened. I hoped it was quick for both of them.
I crawled into my sleeper around 5 a.m. somewhere near Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. This wasn’t a logbook nightmare, yet, because I logged my loading time as off duty. I got to Vandalia, Illinois, by midnight Thursday. I’ve done the cross-country thing so many times now the bloom is pretty much off the rose, though I do still get a twinge crossing the Big Ditch at St. Louis, which I did Friday morning. The first time I did that was with Willie back in 1979. Jeez. I pulled into the truckstop at Limon, Colorado, on Saturday around 6 p.m. and was putting another thousand dollars’ worth of fuel into the tanks when my phone rang.
“Driver Murphy here. On schedule.”
“Finn, it’s Kevin McMahon.”
“Hello, Kevin. Where are you guys?”
“She didn’t make it, Finn. I’m at a funeral home in Salina, Kansas. Mom went aft to take a nap. When I pulled into Salina she was gone.”
“Christ, Kevin. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too. We talked about it on the way out here. I’m supposed to meet you at the house tomorrow morning. You’re still on schedule?”
“I am.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight, then.”
“Kevin, if you leave now, you’ll barely make it.”
“I’ll make it. I’ve got to stop at a friend’s house in Farmington first. He picked up my dad’s ashes from the FedEx office. My mom had them shipped there from Watertown.”
“What are you going to do about your mom?”
“She’ll stay in Salina. In the refrigerator.”
“You’re sure about all this, right?”
“I’m sure.”
“OK, Kevin. You’re the boss now. I’ll be there, but I have to stop too, to pick up labor.”
“You won’t need any labor.”
“What? You and I are going to unload? I’ll need to pick up some help.”
“You won’t need any help. Trust me on this. Just get rolling.”
“Kevin . . . first your dad, now your mom. It’s only been a couple days. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. No. Maybe. This is what I have to do. Please don’t talk to me. Just be there, and don’t bring anyone.”
“I’ll be there, Kevin. I’ll be there. I won’t bring anyone.”
I had a bitch of a drive ahead of me. It was only 400 miles to Farmington, but I was off the interstate in Limon, and it was flat back roads for 150 miles to Walsenburg and then 250 miles of serious twists and turns and ups and downs, in the dark, to Farmington. There’s a reason these Indian reservations are out in the middle of nowhere. The reason is, they’re out in the middle of nowhere. I was pretty whacked-out tired, but nothing would make me be late for this delivery now. Mrs. McMahon was egging me on from the ether. My plan had been to sleep for five hours and do the last run through the night to get there about 7:30 a.m. Not anymore. I filled up with fuel, grabbed three large Dr Colas. and bought Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals at the truckstop audiobook counter for forty bucks. I’d make it so long as the truck held up. I wasn’t worried. A sort of confidence kicked in from somewhere. Whatever was going to happen would happen. I had the sweet feeling of knowing I was on the side of the angels.
I got into Farmington around 4 a.m. The McMahon house was another hour or so west. I found the place up in the hills. There were no other houses around. I parked my truck in the middle of the unpaved county road, set my flashers, and slept.
Around 9 a.m. somebody banged on my door. Once again, I didn’t know where I was. I peeked through the curtain and saw I was surrounded by maybe a dozen pickup trucks. I threw on some clothes and emerged bleary-eyed into the New Mexico morning. A bunch of guys were standing around what appeared to be the lead truck. It was the only new one. My confidence from the day before carried me through. I walked up to the group.
“What’s up?”