Machine Dreams

looking, her rouged cheeks pink and her round face nearly expressionless.
    “I’m older,” Danner said.
    “Older every minute,” Gladys said, “too old to bathe with boys before long.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jean said, “they’re brother and sister.” She held Billy’s shoulder as he climbed out, then wrapped him up in a towel that covered him to his knees. “Billy,” she said then, “get your pajamas on.”
    Later he heard them, cutting with scissors. He knew they were on their knees, smoothing the patterns with one hand and cutting along a thin line. There was a sound of tissue crinkling against the darker, dull sound of cloth cut steadily. They were cutting the dark wool into shapes with sleeves, shapes to fit big dolls. They were cutting, and his father was sitting at the kitchen table, snapping open the square briefcase that held the plant’s account books. He was smoking and coughing and moving a cup across the wooden surface of the table.
    His father put bowls in front of them, and Billy poured the cereal. They were going to the plant because it was Saturday morning and business was off this weekend; that meant Billy would not be in the way. “We’ve just got that one driveway to pour,” Mitch said. “One truck will do it easy.” Mitch got up to get another cup of coffee. He had his khaki work clothes on but still wore his bedroom slippers; his boots made too much noise, and the work boots he pulled on over his leather boots made even more noise.
    All the men at the concrete company wore big rubber boots while they worked. Billy’s father wore the boots open until the mixers were actually loading. They were firemen’s slick, black boots with metal buckles halfway up. When the boots were open they flopped above the ankle and their black tongues hung to the side. The buckles rattled every step: a sound like someone shakingchains. Now Mitch was stirring orange juice with a long wooden spoon, holding the plastic pitcher away from himself and jabbing at the frozen cylinder of concentrate. When he poured Billy’s juice the warmish liquid would still taste of tap water—not like the juice Mom made, which was always very cold and more like oranges. Mitch would pour the juice into the wrong kind of glass, a big milk glass instead of the little cheese-spread containers Mom saved for juice glasses. He did that now and set the still faintly swirling mixture beside Billy’s napkin. “Look here,” he said, touching the napkin, “I don’t want you telling your mother you’d rather be at the plant than at school.” But he would rather be at the plant. “That don’t matter,” his father said, “you’ve just started the class with your mother and you need to do real well.” But could they still go to the plant on Saturdays, every Saturday? “Not every Saturday,” his father said, “you know that, but some weekends we will.” They were silent and Billy drank his juice. When he dared look over again, his father was watching him. “You sure do like those trucks, don’t you?” Mitch laughed quietly, almost to himself. “I guess you sure do.”
    The big Chevrolet trucks were bright mustard yellow, with black lettering across their huge mixer drums. The big letters said MITCH CONCRETE and Billy had known those words long before he could actually read them. When his father took him up to the plant to be among the men, Billy watched the trucks as though they were live animals, large and ancient. He stood beside the big tires, measuring his own height beside the wheels, then walked around to stand in front, looking up into the massive grill and hood as into a snaggled metallic face. If the men weren’t too busy they lifted him into the cab of one of the trucks and let him sit in there by himself. The interiors of the trucks were cracked and brown, with one long brown seat and all the gearshifts coming up out of the floor. The big steering wheels were white and the dashes were brown metal, slightly dented, with a few long scratches where silver showed through. The broad windshields were streaked with dust. Billy would sit looking out. Below him the blond ground was oddly distant and the men gestured toward him, smiling.
    Now his father began eating toast, and Billy understood that their conversation was over. Billy drank the juice, holding theglass to his face and drinking slowly until the juice was gone. He could see out the kitchen window; across the road he saw the cows huddled