Time Out of Joint

  Ragle reached into his pocket and brought out the small metal box that he carried with him. Opening it he presented it to Vic.

  "What’s this?" Vic said.

  "Reality," Ragle said. "I give you the real."

  Vic took one of the slips of paper out and read it. "This says ’drinking fountain,’ " he said. "What’s it mean?

  "Under everything else," Ragle said. "The word. Maybe it’s the word of God. The logos. ’In the beginning was the Word.’ I can’t figure it out. All I know is what I see and what happens to me. I think we’re living in some other world than what we see, and I think for a while I knew exactly what that other world is. But I’ve lost it since then. Since that night. The future, maybe."

  Handing him back the box of words, Vic said, "I want you to look at something." He pointed out the check-cashing window, and Ragle looked. "At the check-out stands," Vic said. "The big tall girl in the black sweater. The girl with the chest."

  "I’ve seen her before," Ragle said. "She’s a knockout." He watched as the girl rang up items on the register; as she worked she smiled merrily, a wide beaming smile of smooth white teeth. "I think you even introduced me to her, once."

  Vic said, "Very seriously, I want to ask you something. This may sound like a nasty remark, but I mean it in the most important sense. Don’t you think you could solve your problems better in that direction than by anything else? Liz is intelligent—at least she’s got more on the ball than Junie Black. She’s certainly attractive. And she’s not married. You’ve got enough money and you’re famous enough to interest her. The rest is up to you. Take her out a couple of times and then we’ll talk about all this business again."

  "I don’t think it would help," Ragle said.

  "You’re seriously giving it a tumble, though, aren’t you?"

  "I always give it a tumble," he said. "That particular thing."

  "Okay," Vic said. "If you’re sure, I guess that’s that. What do you want to do, try to get hold of one of the trucks?"

  "Could we?"

  "We could try."

  "You want to come along?" Ragle said.

  "All right," Vic said. "I’d like to see; sure, I’d like to have a look outside."

  "You tell me then," Ragle said, "how we should go about getting one of the trucks. This is your store; I’ll leave it up to you."

  At five o’clock Bill Black heard the service trucks parking in the lot outside his office window. Presently his intercom buzzed and his secretary said,

  "Mr. Neroni to see you, Mr. Black."

  "I want to talk to him," he said. He opened the door of his office. After a moment a large muscular dark-haired man appeared, still in his drab coveralls and work shoes. "Come on in," Black said to him. "Tell me what happened today."

  "I made notes," Neroni said, setting down a reel of tape on the desk. "For a permanent record. And there’s some video tape, but it hasn’t come through. The phone crew says he got a call from your wife at about ten o’clock. Nothing in it, except that he apparently thought he’d run into her at his Civil Defense class. She told him she had a date to meet a girl friend downtown. Then the woman who runs the Civil Defense class called to remind him that it was at two o’clock this afternoon. Mrs. Keitelbein."

  "No," Black said. "Mrs. Kesselman."

  "A middle-aged woman with a teen-age son."

  "That’s right," Black said. He remembered meeting the Kesselmans several years ago, when the whole situation had been dreamed up. And Mrs. Kesselman had dropped by recently with her Civil Defense clipboard and literature. "Did he go for his Civil Defense class?"

  "Yes. He mailed off his entries and then he dropped by their house."

  Black had not been told about the Civil Defense class; he had no idea what its purpose was. But the Kesselmans did not get their instructions from anyone in his department.

  "Did somebody cover the Civil Defense class?" Black asked.

  "Not to my knowledge," Neroni said.

  "It doesn’t matter," he said. "She gives it herself, doesn’t she?"

  "As far as I know. When he rang the bell she opened the door herself." Neroni, at that point, frowned and said, "You’re sure we’re talking about the same person? Mrs. Kesselbein?"

  "Something like that." He felt on edge. Ragle Gumm’s actions of the last several days had permanently upset him; the sense of the shaky, day-to-day balance that they had achieved had not left him with Ragle’s return.

  We know now that he can get away, Black thought to himself. In spite of everything, we can lose him. He can revert gradually to sanity, make plans and carry them out; we won’t know until it’s too late or almost too late.

  The next time, we probably won’t manage to find him. Or if not the next time, then the time after that. Eventually.

  Hiding deep in the closet won’t save me, Black said to himself. Burying myself under the clothes, in the darkness, out of sight ... it won’t do me any good.

  TWELVE

  When Margo arrived at the parking lot she saw no sign of her husband. Shutting off the engine of the Volkswagen, she sat for a time, watching the glass doors of the store.

  Usually he’s ready to go by now, she said to herself.

  She got out of the car and started across the parking lot toward the store.

  "Margo," Vic called. He came from the rear of the store, from the loading docks. His pace, and the tension on his face, made her aware that something had happened.

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "You didn’t agree to work Sunday, did you?" That had been in contention between them for years.

  Vic caught hold of her arm and led her back to the car. "I’m not driving home with you." Opening the car door he nudged her inside; he got in after her, shut the door and rolled up the windows.

  Behind the store, at the dock, a giant two-section truck had started to move in the direction of the Volkswagen. Is that monster going to sideswipe us? Margo wondered. One touch of that front bumper, and nothing would remain of this car and us.

  "What’s he doing?" she asked Vic. "I don’t think he knows how to handle that. And trucks aren’t supposed to use this exit, are they? I thought you told me—"

  Interrupting her, Vic said, "Listen. It’s Ragle in the truck."

  She stared at him. And then she saw up into the cab of the truck. Ragle waved at her, a slight flip of his hand. "What do you mean, you won’t be driving home with me?" she demanded. "Do you mean you’re going to take that big thing to the house and park it?" In her mind she envisioned the truck parked in their driveway, advertising to the neighbors that her husband worked in a grocery store. "Listen," she said, "I won’t have you driving home in one of those; I mean it."

  "I’m not driving home in it," he said. "Your brother and I are going on a trip in it." He put his arm around her and kissed her. "I don’t know when we’ll be back. Don’t worry about us. There’re a couple of things I want you to do—"

  She interrupted, "You’re both going?" It made no sense to her. "Tell me what this is about," she said.

  "The main thing I want you to do," Vic said, "is tell Bill Black that Ragle and I are working here at the store. Don’t tell him anything else; don’t tell him we’ve left and don’t tell him when or how we’ve left. Do you understand that? Whatever time the Blacks show up at the house and ask where Ragle is, say you talked to him down at the store. Even if it’s two in the morning. Say I’ve asked him to help me do an inventory for a surprise auditing."

  "Can I ask you one thing?" she said, hoping to get at least a trifle of information; it was obvious that he had no intention of telling her much more. "Was Ragle with Junie Black the other night when the taxi driver carried him in the door?"

  "God no," Vic said.

  "Are you getting him off somewhere so that Bill Black can’t find him and murder him?"

  Vic eyed her. "You’re on the wrong track, honey." He kissed her again, squeezed her, and pushed open the car door. "Say good-bye to Sammy for us." Turning toward the truck h
e yelled, "What?" Then leaning back in the Volkswagen he said, "Ragle says to tell Lowery at the newspaper that he found a contest that pays better." Grinning at her, he loped over to the truck and around to the far side; she heard him climb up into the cab beside her brother, and then his face appeared next to Ragle’s.

  "So long," Ragle shouted down at her. Both he and Vic waved. Roaring and spluttering, sending up black exhaust from its stack, the truck started from the lot, onto the street. Cars slowed for it; the truck performed a laborious, awkward right turn, and then it had disappeared beyond the store. For a long time, she heard the heavy vibrations of it as it gained speed and departed.

  They’re out of their minds, she thought wretchedly. In a reflectively purposeful fashion she put the ignition key back into the lock of the Volkswagen and switched on the motor. Behind her, its wheezing obscured the last noises of the truck.

  Vic’s trying to save Ragle, she said to herself. Trying to get him away where he’s safe. I know Junie consulted an attorney. Do they intend to marry? Maybe Bill won’t divorce her.

  What a dreadful event, to have Junie Black as a sister-in-law.

  Meditating about that, she drove slowly home.

  As the truck moved through the early-evening traffic, Vic said to his brother-in-law, "You don’t think these big rigs vanish a mile outside of town?"

  Ragle said, "Food has to be brought in from outside. The same thing we’d do if we wanted to keep a zoo going." Very much the same, he thought. "It seems to me that those men unloading cartons of pickles and shrimp and paper towels are the connection between us and the real world. It makes sense, anyhow. What else can we go on?"

  "I hope he can breathe back there," Vic said, meaning the driver. They had waited until the others had gone, leaving this one. While Ted, the driver, was inside stacking cartons on the hand truck, he and Ragle had closed and bolted the thick metal doors. It had taken perhaps one minute, then, to get up into the cab and begin warming the diesel motor. While they were doing that, Margo had arrived in the Volkswagen.

  "As long as it’s not a refrigerator truck," Ragle said. Or so Vic had said while they waited for the other trucks to leave.

  "You don’t think it would have been better to leave him in the store? Nobody looks in some of the back storerooms."

  Ragle said, "I just have the intuition that he’d get right out. Don’t ask me why."

  Vic did not ask him why. He kept his eyes on the road. They had left the downtown business section. Traffic had thinned. Stores gave way to a residential section, small modern houses, one-story, with tall TV masts and washing hanging on lines, high redwood fences, cars parked in driveways.

  "I wonder where they’ll stop us," Ragle said.

  "Maybe they won’t."

  "They will," he said. "But maybe we’ll be across by that time."

  After a while Vic said, "Just consider. If this doesn’t work out, you and I will face a charge of felony kidnaping and I’ll no longer be in the produce business and you probably will be asked to resign from the Where Will the Little Green Man Be Next? contest."

  The houses became fewer. The truck passed gas stations, tawdry cafés, ice cream stands and motels. The dreary parade of motels ... as if, Ragle thought, we had already gone a thousand miles and were just now entering a strange town. Nothing is so alien, so bleak and unfriendly, as the strip of gas stations—cut-rate gas stations—and motels on the rim of your own city. You fail to recognize it. And at the same time, you have to clasp it to your bosom. Not just for one night, but as long as you intend to live where you live.

  But we don’t intend to live here any more. We’re leaving. For good.

  Did I get this far before? he wondered. They had got to open fields, now. A last intersection, a minor road serving industries that had been zoned out of the city proper. The railroad tracks ... he noticed an infinitely long freight train at rest. The suspended drums of chemicals on towers over factories.

  "Nothing like it," Vic said. "Especially at sunset."

  The traffic, now, had become other trucks, with few sedans.

  "There’s your barbecue place," Vic said.

  On the right, Ragle saw the sign, Frank’s Bar-B-Q and Drinks. Modern-looking enough. Clean, certainly. New cars in the lot. The truck rumbled on past it. The place fell behind.

  "Well, you got farther this time," Vic said.

  Ahead of them, the highway led into a range of hills. Up high, Ragle thought. Maybe somehow I got up there, up to the top. Tried to walk across those peaks. Could I have been that tanked up?

  No wonder I didn’t make it.

  On and on they drove. The countryside became monotonous. Fields, rolling hills, everything featureless, with advertising signs stuck at intervals. And then, without warning, the hills flattened and they found themselves rolling down a long straight grade.

  "This is what makes me sweat," Ragle said. "Driving a big rig down a really long grade." He had already shifted into a gear low enough to hold back the mass of the truck. At least they carried no load; the mass was small enough for him, with his limited experience, to control. During the time that they had warmed the motor, he had learned the gear-box pattern. "Anyhow," he said to Vic, "we’ve got a horn loud as hell." He blew a couple of blasts on it, experimentally; it made both of them jump.

  At the end of the grade a yellow and black official sign attracted their attention. They could make out a cluster of sheds or temporary buildings. It had a grim look.

  "Here it is," Vic said. "This is what you meant."

  At the sheds, several trucks had lined up. And now, as they got closer, they saw uniformed men. Across the highway the sign flapped in the evening wind.

  STATE LINE AGRICULTURAL INSPECTION STATION TRUCKS USE SCALE IN RIGHT LANE ONLY

  "That means us," Vic said. "The scale. They’re going to weigh us. If they’re inspecting, they’ll open up the back." He glanced at Ragle. "Should we stop here and try to do something with Ted?"

  Too late now, Ragle realized. The state inspectors could see the truck and them inside it; anything they did would be visible. At the first shed two black police cars had been parked so that they could get onto the highway at an instant’s notice. We couldn’t outrun them, either, he realized. Nothing to do but continue on to the scale.

  An inspector, wearing sharply pressed dark blue trousers, a light blue shirt, badge and cap, sauntered toward them as they slowed to a stop. Without even glancing at them he waved them on.

  "We don’t have to stop," Ragle said excitedly, with insight. "It’s a fake!" He waved back at the inspector, and Vic did the same. The man’s back was already to them. "They don’t ever stop these big carriers— just passenger cars. We’re out."

  The sheds and sign dropped back and disappeared. They had got out; already, they had done it. Any other kind of vehicle would not have got through. But the genuine carriers passed back and forth all day long... in his rear-view mirror Ragle saw three more trucks being waved on. The trucks parked in a line at the sheds were dummies, like the other equipment.

  "None of them," he said. "None of the trucks have to stop."

  "You were right," Vic said. He settled back against the seat. "I suppose if we had tried to get by them in the Volkswagen they would have told us that we had some variety of insect infestation clinging to the upholstery. Japanese beetles... you have to drive back and get sprayed and apply for a one-month permit for re-inspection, subject to indefinite withdrawal."

  As he drove, Ragel noticed that the highway had undergone a change. Now that they had passed the inspection station the highway had separated into two distinct roads, each five lanes wide, absolutely straight and flat. And no longer concrete. He did not recognize the material over which they now drove.

  This is the outside, he said to himself. The outside highway, which we were never supposed to see or know about.

  Trucks behind them and ahead of them. Some carrying supplies in, some empty and leaving, as they were. The ant trails leading
into and out of the town. Ceaseless movement. And not one passenger car. Only the rumble of diesel trucks.

  And, he realized, the advertising signs had vanished.

  "Better switch on your lights," Vic said. Evening gloom had settled onto the hills and fields. One truck coming toward them along the other road had its lights on. "We want to obey the laws. Whatever they are."

  Ragle switched on the lights. The evening seemed quiet and lonely. Far off, a bird skimmed along the surface of the earth, its wings rigid. The bird lighted on a fence.

  "What about fuel?" Ragle said.

  Leaning past him, Vic read the fuel gauge. "Half full," he said. "I frankly have no idea how far a rig like this can go on a tank. Or if there’s a reserve tank. Without a load we should go fairly far. Depends a great deal on what kind of grades we run across. A heavy vehicle loses a lot on grades; you’ve seen trucks stuck halfway up a grade, moving ten miles an hour in its lowest gear."

  "Maybe we better let Ted out," Ragle said. It had occurred to him that their money might be worthless. "We’ll have to buy fuel and food — we don’t know where, or even if we can. He must have credit cards on him. And money that’s good."

  Vic tossed a handful of papers into his lap. "From the glove compartment," he said. "Credit cards, maps, meal tickets. No money, though. We’ll see what we can do with the credit cards. They’re usually good at—" He broke off. "Motels," he said finally. "If they have them. What do you think we’ll find?"

  "I don’t know," Ragle said. Darkness had obliterated the landscape around them; in the open spaces between towns there were no street lights to give them clues. Only the flat land, up to the sky, where lighter colors, a bluish-black, began. Stars had appeared.

  "Do we have to wait until morning?" Vic said. "Are we going to have to drive all night?"