Green Eyes

  ‘You better be scared, lady,’ he said, and laughed. ‘When you motherfuckers made me, you created a monster.’

  He ducked back into the bush, then came around the front of the van, holding his guitar. Underlit by the headlights, his face was seamed and gruesome; his eyes effloresced. Donnell climbed down, limped to the gate, and pushed the button. The iron bars swung open. ‘Pull it on through,’ he said to Richmond.

  As Richmond drove the van out, the moon sailed from behind the clouds and everything grew very sharp and bright. The gate whined shut. Pearly reflections rippled over the side of the van; the road arrowed off toward the swamp, a bone-white strip vanishing between dark walls of cypress, oak and palmetto. Fresh mosquito bites suddenly itched on Jocundra’s arm, as if the moon had broken through her own cloudiness, her confusion, illuminating her least frailty. She did not want to be with Richmond. The road was a wild, unreckonable place crossed by devious slants of shadow.

  The guard moaned.

  ‘Hurry up!’ yelled Richmond.

  Donnell was doing something to the lock mechanism, molding voluptuous shapes in the air around it with his hands; he stopped, apparently satisfied, stared at it, then stepped over to the wall and jabbed the control button several times.

  The gate remained shut.

  ‘Man, I can handle this road at twice the speed,’ said Richmond from the back of the van. ‘She’s drivin’ like a fuckin’ old lady.’

  ‘She’s got a license,’ said Donnell patiently. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Listen, man!’ Richmond stuck his head up between the seats. ‘It was cool you runnin’ the show when we was inside ‘cause you could deal with the cameras and shit, but I ain’t…’ He nearly toppled into the front as the van hit a pothole, then he fell back. ‘Look at this shit! She’s gonna kill our ass!’

  ‘Quit yelling in her ear, damn it! How the hell can she drive when you’re yelling at her!’

  Hearing them argue, Jocundra had a moment of hysteria, a happy little trickle of it eeling up from her depths, and all the unhappy particulars of the situation were bathed in a surreal light. There they sat like TV hoodlums planning a spree of Seven-11 stick-ups and high times, fighting over who was boss - to further this impression they were both wearing sunglasses which Richmond had stolen from the orderlies - and there she sat, the mute flunky, the moll. At length they agreed on a compromise: Donnell would serve as the mastermind, while Richmond would take charge in situations calling for swift action and street smarts. Donnell asked her if she knew a place nearby where they could be safe for a couple of days.

  ‘The swamp,’ she said. ‘It’s full of deserted shanties and cabins. But shouldn’t we get as far away as possible?’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Richmond, disgusted. He scrunched around on the floor; his guitar banged hollowly. ‘I’m gonna lay back for a while. You deal with her, man.’

  ‘You weren’t listening,’ said Donnell exasperated.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was concentrating on the road.’

  ‘We’re going to switch license plates. They’ll expect us to run, I think, so we’re going to stay nearby, maybe pick up another car. The swamp won’t do. We need someplace near a town, within a couple of hours’ drive. That’s how long the gate and the phones should stay out.’

  ‘Well, over on Bayou Lafourche there’s a stretch of motels,’ she said. ‘Mostly dumps. I doubt they pay much attention to who their customers are.’

  ‘Make it some place near a liquor store,’ said Richmond. ‘I need to get fucked up!’

  When they reached the state highway, Jocundra boosted the speed to fifty and raised her window. Wind keened in the side vent. White houses bloomed phosphorescent among the brush and scrub pine; gas stations with broken windows and boarded-up restaurants. Near the town of Vernon’s Parish they passed a low building with yellow light streaming from its doors and windows, a neon champagne glass atop it, surrounded by cars. Black stick figures, armless and faceless, jostled in the doorway, and their movements made them seem to be flickering, pulsing to the blare of light around them like spirits dancing in a fire. Then they were gone, the moon was occluded, and a wave of unrelieved darkness rolled over the van. Richmond chorded his guitar. 

  ‘Past the road to Vernon’s Parish  Our tailpipe was sprayin’ sparks.  The preacher in the Calvary Church  Felt cold fingers ‘round his heart…’

  The song and the air of stale, forced confinement in the van reminded Jocundra of traveling with Charlie’s band. When he had described it to her, it had sounded romantic, but in reality it had been greasy food and never enough sleep and being groped by Quaaluded roadies. The only good part had been the music, which served to mythologize the experience. She glanced at Donnell; he rested his head wearily against the window as Richmond’s cawing voice wove into the rush of the highway.