The Long Walk

darkness. Flashbulbs popped and Garraty turned his head away miserably. Nothing could be worse than this. Nothing.
    He almost fell on his back and managed to prop himself up with one arm.
    A squealing girlish voice: “I see it! I see his thing !”
    Baker passed him without a glance.
    For a terrifying moment he thought it was all going to be for nothing anyway—a false alarm—but then it was all right. He was able to take care of business. Then, with a grunting half-sob, he rose to his feet and stumbled into a half-walk, half-run, cinching his pants tight again, leaving part of him behind to steam in the dark, eyed avidly by a thousand people—bottle it! put it on your mantel! The shit of a man with his life laid straight out in the line! This is it, Betty, I told you we had something special in the game room . . . right up here, over the stereo. He was shot twenty minutes later . . .
    He caught up with McVries and walked beside him, head down.
    “Tough?” McVries asked. There was unmistakable admiration in his voice.
    “Real tough,” Garraty said, and let out a shivery, loosening sigh. “I knew I forgot something.”
    “What?”
    “I left my toilet paper home.”
    McVries cackled. “As my old granny used to say, if you ain’t got a cob, then just let your hips slide a little freer.”
    Garraty burst out laughing, a clear, hearty laugh with no hysteria in it. He felt lighter, looser. No matter how things turned out, he wouldn’t have to go through that again.
    “Well, you made it,” Baker said, falling in step.
    “Jesus,” Garraty said, surprised. “Why don’t all you guys just send me a get-well card, or something? ”
    “It’s no fun, with all those people staring at you,” Baker said soberly. “Listen, I just heard something. I don’t know if I believe it. I don’t know if I even want to believe it.”
    “What is it?” Garraty asked.
    “Joe and Mike? The leather-jacket guys everybody thought was queer for each other? They’re Hopis. I think that was what Scramm was trying to tell us before, and we weren’t gettin’ him. But . . . see . . . what I hear is that they’re brothers.”
    Garraty’s jaw dropped.
    “I walked up and took a good look at ’em,” Baker was going on. “And I’ll be goddamned if they don’t look like brothers.”
    “That’s twisted,” McVries said angrily. “That’s fucking twisted! Their folks ought to be Squaded for allowing something like that!”
    “You ever know any Indians?” Baker asked quietly.
    “Not unless they came from Passaic,” McVries said. He still sounded angry.
    “There’s a Seminole reservation down home, across the state line,” Baker said. “They’re funny people. They don’t think of things like ‘responsi bility’ the same way we do. They’re proud. And poor. I guess those things are the same for the Hopis as they are for the Seminoles. And they know how to die.”
    “None of that makes it right,” McVries said.
    “They come from New Mexico,” Baker said.
    “It’s an abortion,” McVries said with finality, and Garraty tended to agree.
    Talk flagged all up and down the line, partially because of the noise from the crowd, but more, Garraty suspected, because of the very monotony of the turnpike itself. The hills were long and gradual, barely seeming like hills. Walkers dozed, snorted fitfully, and seemed to pull their belts tighter and resign themselves to a long, barely understood bitterness ahead. The little clots of society dissolved into threes, twos, solitary islands.
    The crowd knew no fatigue. They cheered steadily with one hoarse voice, they waved unreadable placards. Garraty’s name was shouted with monotonous frequency, but blocs of out-of-staters cheered briefly for Barkovitch, Pearson, Wyman. Other names blipped past and were gone with the speeding velocity of snow across a television screen.
    Firecrackers popped and spluttered in strings. Someone threw a burning road flare into the cold sky and the crowd scattered, screaming, as it pinwheeled down to hiss its glaring purple light into the dirt of a gravel shoulder beyond the breakdown lane. There were other crowd standouts. A man with an electric bullhorn who alternately praised Garraty and advertised his own candidacy to represent the second district; a woman with a big crow in a small cage which she hugged jealously to her giant bosom; a human pyramid made out of college boys in University of New Hampshire sweatshirts; a hollow-cheeked man with