Machine Dreams

and he usually bought her a cola from the cooler in the station, so she’d have an excuse to stare longer.
    Now she pushed the lock button down on her door and said, adultlike, “The motor still runs very smoothly.”
    “Sure it does. Only been a week since you heard it.”
    She nodded. “One week. I told all the girls at school: you got a Streamliner sedan, four doors.”
    Of course she would tell them. Aloud, he said, “That’s right. And why is it called a Silver Streak?”
    “Because of the chrome strips. Like right there.” She pointed in front of them to the silvered midline of the hood. “Runs right down to the grill. Those are the streaks. But you know too,”—she raised her eyebrows—“if the Pontiac was going real fast, like in a comic, the chrome would shine like lights. The car would look like a blur, but the chrome would be all streaks.”
    “I guess you’re right, Fritz.”
    She frowned as they turned onto Main Street, pretending to look carefully at the storefronts. “You ought to call me Katie,” she said, “I’m too old for nicknames by now.”
    “Well, is that so.” He steered with one hand and lay his arm along the back of the seat. “Don’t seem possible you’re that old already. Reb is called Doc Reb by the whole town—he’s a grown man and most people don’t even know his real name. And look what he calls me.”
    “He calls you Cowboy, I realize.”
    Realize?
Where did she get that word? “Around home,” he continued, “you all call me Old Man.”
    She seemed to deliberate. “I think you started calling yourself that,” she said softly.
    Damn, he supposed she was right. He kept himself from smiling. Quickly, just as he’d intended, she read his response as hurt and tried to make it up. “Men have a lot of nicknames,” she said, “but it’s different with girls and women.”
    “I don’t know why girls and women can’t have some fun.”
    She shrugged. “I guess they don’t need much fun.”
    Now they were passing the school and he slowed the car so she could take a look at the playground. Good, it was empty. To distract her, he said softly, teasingly, “You sure you’re not too old to go to a cartoon show? That’s what’s on today, a Disney show.”
    “It’s
Make Mine Music.
” She turned her full gaze on him, her smooth pale face close to his hand. “Long cartoons, like stories. I’m going because I’ve decided to collect comics. I’ve already got one hundred and forty, before the collection is even started.” He felt her delicate breath on his fingers as she spoke. She turned her face forward then, watching the scenery as though she hadn’t seen it hundreds of times. “A cartoon movie is the same as a comic except it moves,” she said, “and there are thousands of comics one after another.” She folded her hands on her lap. “Since I have to stay home, Mama said I could have a new notepad, a great big one. I’m going to draw comics.”
    “Katie, that’s a good idea.” He meant to encourage her but she was lost in the idea and barely heard him.
    “First I’ll trace my comic books with tracing paper—the covers, where things are biggest, until I can draw my own. I’ll learn one at a time.” She seemed almost to talk to herself, then looked over at Mitch. “I thought of this while you were at lunch with Doc Reb and Daddy was asleep. Mama was over at the hospital and Twister was at basketball. I have my best thoughts when I’m by myself.”
    “It’s always that way,” Mitch said. He pulled into the Mobil station and drove up beside the pumps. For a moment he listened to the engine idle—a smooth and satisfying purr—then turned the ignition off. “You stay here,” he told Katie. “I’ll go in and pay and maybe find you a soda.”
    Already she’d leaned forward, looking past the high dash of the Pontiac at the billboard. The red horse above them seemed to fly over the cracked concrete of the station lot and the street beyond, a red gleaming horse with powerful flanks, its feathered wings spread to glide. The belly was long and flat and the horse seemed to swim a fast current of wind, mane flying, head lowered, nostrils flared with effort. There was a white streak up the center of the side-viewed head.
    “Good-looking fella, your horse,” Mitch said.
    “Oh, he’s beautiful,” Katie whispered. “I wish I could draw him.”
    “No need,” he told her. “You wouldn’t find a horse like that in the comics.” He