L Is for Lawless

supposed to be horse country? I expected blue grass and white fences."
    "That's closer to Lexington, northeast of here. The fences these days are black. Over in the far eastern part of the state, you have the coal fields of Harlan County. This is western Kentucky where most of the tobacco's grown."
    "She doesn't want a travelogue, Ray."
    "Yes, I do," I said. She was always taking cuts at him, which made me feel protective. If she was going to be the bad daughter, I was going to be the good. "Show me on the map."
    He pointed to an area north of the Tennessee border, between the Barren River Lake and the Nolan River Lake. "We just passed through Bowling Green, and we got Mammoth Cave National Park coming up on our left. We had time, we'd do the tour. Talk about dark. You go down in the caverns, when the guide turns out the lights? You can't see for shit. It's blacker than black, and it's dead quiet. Fifty-four degrees. It's like a meatpacking plant. Three hundred miles of passageways they've found so far. Last time I went was maybe 1932. A field trip in school. Left a big impression on me. When I was in prison, I used to think about that. You know, one day I'd come back and take the tour again."
    Laura was looking at him strangely.
"That's
what you thought about? Not women or whiskey or fast cars?"
    "All I wanted was to get away from overhead lights and the noise. The racket's enough to drive you nuts. And the smell. That's another thing about Mammoth Cave. It smells like moss and wet rocks. Doesn't smell like sweat and testosterone. It smells like life before birth… what's the word, primordial."
    "Geez. I'm sorry I have to go back to California so soon. You're talking me into it," I said dryly.
    Ray smiled. "You joke, but you'd like it. I guarantee."
    "Primordial?" Laura said with disbelief.
    "What, you're surprised I know words like that? I got my GED. I even took college classes. Economics and psychology and shit like that. Just because I was in prison doesn't mean I'm a fool. Lot of smart guys in prison. You'd be surprised," he said.
    "Really," she said, sounding unconvinced.
    "Yeah, really. I bet I can work a sewing machine better than you, for starters."
    "That wouldn't take much," she said.
    "This is very uplifting sitting here talking to you. You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself."
    "Fuck you."
    "You're the one complains your stepdad is always putting you down. Why don't you do better, improve the situation instead of acting like him?"
    Laura said nothing. Ray studied her profile and finally looked back at the road.
    The silence stretched uncomfortably, and I could feel myself squirm. "How far from here?"
    "About an hour and a half. How're you doing back there?"
    "I'm doing good," I said.
    We reached Louisville just before noon, approaching the town on Highway 65. I could see the airport on our left, and I nearly whimpered with longing. We took an intersecting highway west through an area called Shively, bypassing most of the downtown business district. To our right, I could see the clusters of tall buildings, sturdy blocks of concrete, most of them squared off on top. Ahead of us was the Ohio River, with Indiana visible on the other side.
    We exited in an area called Portland, which was where Ray Rawson grew up. I could see his smile quicken as he took in the neighborhood. He turned toward me halfway, putting his arms across the seat back. "The Portland Canal's down that way. Locks were built a hundred years ago to take river traffic past the falls. My great-grandfather worked on the construction. I'll take you over there if we have time."
    I was more interested in catching a plane than seeing any of the local landmarks, but I knew the offer was part of his excitement at coming home. Having been incarcerated for most of the last forty-five years, he was probably feeling like Rip van Winkle, marveling at all the changes in the world at large. It might be a comfort that his immediate neighborhood seemed untouched by the passage of time. The streets were wide, trees showing the last vestiges of autumn leaves. Most trees were bare, but down the block I could see smatterings of yellow and red leaves remaining. On the street we'd taken, coming off the freeway, many house fronts had been converted into businesses: signs for child care, a hair salon, a tackle shop selling live bait. The yards were uniformly small and flat, separated by chicken-wire fences with dilapidated gates. Dead leaves, like