Machine Dreams

end of the lot didn’t notice him either; Billy walked in privacy toward them.
    Pulaski was in the cab, revving the engine of the Chevrolet. Even this far away, Billy saw the whole truck tremble when Pulaski pressed the gas. Mitch and Radabaugh stood on either side of the big front end, pressing the yellow hood with their hands. They held their heads to the side, listening. What did they hear? “Again,” Mitch said loudly. And the motor roared. Mitch waved his hand at Pulaski as Billy reached them, and the motor stopped.
    Mitch and Radabaugh stood in place, waiting. Billy waited with them.
    “Engine is pulling up,” Mitch said. “That right motor mount is near rusted through, and the points have gone again.”
    “She’s rough as a bitch.” Radabaugh spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She ain’t firing right or those points wouldn’t go so fast.”
    “We can’t put new ones in now unless we have to,” Mitch said. “We’ll clean these and see how she sounds.”
    Billy moved to stand nearer his father and he saw, very close, the pale crusted mud that covered the massive inside fender. In there was a hollow that made room for the tire to go round; even with that furious turning, the dried mud was undisturbed, a rumpled interior shell washed of color.
    Now his father stroked the back of Billy’s neck, the way he did when he was really thinking of something else. “I left my damn gloves in the office,” he said. “Run and get them for me, Billy—they’re on Clayton’s desk, beside the books.”
    Billy knew the gloves; they were workmen’s gloves with hard fingers; even the palms were stiff from getting wet and drying in the sun, or freezing in the winter. The gloves used to be light green but now they were almost white. Billy walked quickly to get them; he knew his father didn’t really mean he should run. Mitch wouldn’t have run. And besides, Billy knew where the gloves were. They weren’t on the desk: they were on the floor, in the corner behind Clayton’s chair. Billy saw them in his mind, just the way they lay. He walked watching his feet, wishing he had boots with hard toes that scuffed, and the scuff mark stayed like ascratch that didn’t heal. He would tell Clayton he’d come for the gloves, and he would say it matter-of-factly; Clayton would still be
studying the books
and he wouldn’t pay attention any more than if one of the men had come back for a moment. Billy stopped at the door of the office and looked up, poised to speak.
    Clayton was sitting beside the desk in the chair. He’d said how the chair tilted backward and forward on a big coiled spring; now the chair was tilted slightly and Clayton sat quite still, one long leg stretched before him and the other pulled close. His foot curled strangely near the small gritty wheel of the chair. Clayton’s hands were on his thighs, his arms tight to his torso as though he had braced himself. Billy stood watching, arms outstretched to touch both sides of the doorjamb. Under his fingers the wood was minutely gouged and ridged; he touched this splintered surface and waited. Clayton was looking toward the door, but the focus of his blue eyes was not fixed; his gaze was directed far off.
    Billy knew not to move. The room was quiet and still; Clayton had changed all the air in it. Billy was cold but his face burned as though some heat approached him. The morning light was behind them both and fell through the door to lighten Clayton’s face and Clayton’s puzzled eyes. The light moved; Clayton’s gaze shifted subtly and grew dimmer. It wasn’t like the dream; Clayton didn’t say a word, he didn’t try to talk.
    Billy turned and ran. The ground tilted beneath his feet; the buildings of the plant looked unfamiliar and odd, sheds and garages standing alone like so many big blocks with slanted roofs. Mitch and Radabaugh and Pulaski stood at the far end of the lot as before; the big mixer was still running but now the hood was raised up and all three men stood listening. Billy couldn’t see his father’s face. Mitch had leaned down to inspect the craw of the opening; he was lost to the waist in dark gears.
    Billy never remembered speaking but all three men ran to the office. They were dressed in khaki, like soldiers, and the one mixer kept rumbling in their absence, the empty drum turning. Billy stood where he was until Radabaugh came back and picked him up. He was too old to be carried but Radabaugh lifted him easily;Billy was