Hector Ramirez’s current gig was hauling eleven hundred cases of Valvoline motor oil from Trenton, New Jersey, to Lakewood, Colorado, a run he looked forward to because it took him through some beautiful countryside. He had been a trucker since he could vote, starting out for a small company based in Utah before cutting his corporate ties and buying his own cab. Now he worked for himself (“I’m an honest-to-God businessman,” Heck said. “CEO, president, vice president, and grunt worker all rolled into one.”). For his fiftieth birthday, his wife, Rita, had surprised him by having his cab airbrushed with the nighttime cityscape of Gotham City, complete with Batman swinging from his bat-rope that filled up most of the driver’s door. He was a friendly enough guy whose slender wedding band seemed to be cutting off the circulation of his chubby ring finger, and he talked for nearly the entire duration of their trip like someone who’d just been rescued from a desert island and hadn’t seen another living soul in several years.
Before getting back on the road, Heck insisted he have a look at David’s injured arm. When David removed the wrapping—the napkins had soaked all the way through and were now as colorful as Christmas decorations—Heck whistled through his teeth, then nodded like a bobblehead doll.
“Yeah, okay. That’s a gash, all right. Prob’ly needs stitches. Hold tight.”
Heck slipped through a narrow opening between the front seats that led to a small compartment in the rear of the cab. There was a cot back there, a stack of magazines and books, an open bag of Doritos. A moment later, Heck returned with a first-aid kit. Utilizing a roll of gauze and a few butterfly bandages, Heck wrapped David’s arm after first cleansing the wound with peroxide. After he was done, Heck sat up straight, grinning and evidently pleased with himself.
“Not half bad for government work,” Heck commented.
“Better than some Burger King napkins and a rubber band,” David said.
Then they hit the road.
Heck was a talker, the kind of guy who filled the silence with anecdotes about his life and his career, or just random trivia in general—anything to keep the silence from dominating. During the only lull in the conversation, Ellie, who sat perched between them on the bench seat, pointed to a framed photo of a young, dark-haired boy that was fixed to the truck’s dashboard. “Is that your son?” she asked Heck.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s his name?”
“Benicio,” Heck said. “We called him Benny.”
David noted the past tense. He also noticed the rosary draped around the boy’s picture. He touched one of Ellie’s knees, but she didn’t take the hint.
“How old is he?”
“In that photo, he’s about six. Bit younger than you, my dear.”
“I’m eight. But I’ll be nine in a couple of days.”
“That’s right,” David said. In all the commotion, he had forgotten.
“Well, happy birthday . . . in a couple of days,” Heck said, and tipped his hat at her.
“How old is he not in the photo?” Ellie asked. “Like now, in real life, I mean.”
“Oh, well, sweetheart,” Heck said. “My boy, he ain’t with us no more.”
“Where did he go?”
“Ellie,” David said.
“It’s okay,” Heck said. He smiled down at Ellie, a pleasant enough smile despite the liquid shimmer suddenly visible in his eyes. “Benny passed on.”
“He died,” she said.
“He got sick. Lots of people getting sick nowadays.”
“I’m sorry,” David said.
“He was a good boy.” Heck’s gruff voice hit a snag, like a piece of thread from a sweater getting caught on a hook.
“Was it the illness?” Ellie asked. “Some people call it the Folly.”
“It was,” said Heck. “He was one of the lucky ones. He went very quickly. I was on the road when it happened.”
“He was alone?”
“Come on, Ellie,” David said, squeezing her knee.
Heck raised a hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “No, dear, he was with his mama back home.”
“Oh.” She leaned forward, scrutinizing the photo of the handsome little boy. “When did it happen?”
“Last year.”
“Do you have any other kids?”
“No, pepita. Now we’re alone.”
Ellie looked up at Heck. The trucker glanced down at her, smiling, his eyes glassy and red. Ellie reached up and placed a small white hand on the man’s broad shoulder. David felt his heart racing a mile a minute.
The big man cleared his throat and said, “You wanna hear me blast this air horn, darling?”
“I heard it when you drove up behind us,” Ellie said. “It scared me, it was so loud.”
Heck chuckled. A single tear spilled down his cheek and merged with a crease at the corner of his mouth. “Well, now, I suppose that’s true. You’re a frank little lady, aren’t you?”
“I guess so,” she said.
“What you got in that shoe box?”
“Bird eggs. Three of them.”
“Yeah?”