SHORT STORIES by Steven R. Buller

THE MEN IN THE TRUCK
by
Steven R. Buller

The car pulled into the driveway. Chad and Joy got out of the car and walked up to the porch. Joy rang the doorbell. It felt strange, ringing the doorbell of the house she once lived in.

The door opened. Nora, the full-time care giver, appeared solemnly in the doorway. Then she let Chad and Joy into the house.

"Dr. Williams is here," Nora said.

The aging doctor who still made house calls emerged from the den, where Alice Carpenter was convalescing, as Chad and Joy entered the living room.

"How are you, Mr. Seaborne, Mrs. Seaborne. Good to see you again," the doctor said.

Joy said, "How is she, Dr. Williams?"

The doctor took a deep breath.

"She is dying," he said.

Chad put his arm around his wife. Joy made a fist and put it up to her mouth.

"It's the best thing," Dr. Williams said. "It is possible to live too long."

"I need to sit down," Joy said. She sat down on the couch along the wall facing the large window.

The doctor sat down with her, holding onto her hand. Chad was left standing.

"There is something else I should tell you," Dr. Williams continued. "She might not be...well, present." He looked out the window as if searching for the words. "It seems she's reliving a part of her childhood."

Joy stared at the doctor, not knowing what to make of it.

"It's quite common with older patients, when they're nearing the end."

"Will...will she know us?" Joy asked.

Dr. Williams put his hand under his chin. "It's possible. But she might not."

Chad sat down in the chair opposite the couch.

Dr. Williams reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle.

"I'm going to leave this with you." He handed the bottle to Joy. "It's an elixir with morphine in it. Give her two tablespoons every four hours. I'll leave you now. I'll come back and check on her this evening."

Joy held the bottle close to her breast.

Chad stood up and took the doctor's hand.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"If you need anything, call me," he said. Then he left.

Chad and Joy went into the den and stood beside the bed. Nora fluffed the pillows, tucked in the blankets, and left the den without saying anything.

"Hello, Mom," Joy said, taking a bony hand. "How are you feeling?"

Alice looked at the two figures with wide, staring eyes. The eyes looked glassy. She looked at Chad.

"Daddy," she said. "What's happening, Daddy?"

"What?" Chad said. "Did she call me Daddy?"

But Alice didn't hear him. She was back in Arkansas.

# # # #

Alice's dad returned one day from the place where he sold his wheat with the back of his truck still full of wheat. He pulled off the driveway and headed to the fields. Then he stopped and got out. He began snipping the wires with a cutter and kicking the bushels of wheat back into the field.

After a while, she saw her mother come out of the house. Mrs. Hamstead walked quickly towards the field where Alice's dad was working. She hadn't even bothered to take off her apron. Alice followed her mother.

"What are you doing, Bill? What's the matter with you?".

Alice's father kept unloading the wheat bushels.

"Nobody's buying any wheat. There's too much of it."

"What? Nobody's buying any wheat at all?"

"Well, some--at cut rate prices. When I got there the quota was used up."

Mrs. Hamstead stood silently for a while with her hands on her hips.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Plow it under. Start all over."

Alice's mom didn't say anything. She turned and walked back into the house.

Two years later there was dust in the air, dust everywhere. Alice would come into the house with dirt all over her dress and in her hair. Dirt clouded the windows and they could not be kept clean.

That's when her dad came home one day and said they had to leave for California.

In the beginning of the trip to California, the family truck was passing through the little town of England, Arkansas. There was a mob in front of the General Store that, among other things, sold a variety of foods. The crowd consisted of men, women, and children. Some of the men had guns. Two police cars were parked, one on either side of the crowd. The policemen were standing next to their cars grasping shotguns, but their faces wore helpless expressions.

Alice's father pulled over to see what was going on.

The proprietor stood in front of the store holding a shotgun.

Someone yelled, "Give us food. We need food. Our children are starving." It was a woman's voice.

The store owner yelled to the crowd, "Go to the Red Cross. That's what they're for."

An angry man yelled, "The Red Cross is out of food. You have food."

"I'm in business here. I have to make a living."

Another woman yelled, "You mean you would turn away our starving children? Look at them."

Alice looked into the crowd and saw children her own age with dirty, unhappy faces.

Suddenly, as if receiving a signal, the entire crowd began yelling. Some of the children were crying. A few men fired shots into the air. The proprietor disappeared into the store and the crowd became silent.

After a long time, the proprietor emerged with a large cart containing small bags of food. He started handing them out to people in the crowd.

Receiving the bags of food, some of the women said, "God bless you, you're a good man."

The men stood awkwardly, staring at the ground.

# # # #

There was a sliding glass door across the other side of the bed. Chad went over and pulled the floor-length curtain. It was afternoon, but the sun had not reached the point where it would shine directly into the room. The room brightened with the daylight. Alice had mumbled something about Arkansas.

"What about Arkansas, Mom?" Joy said. "Are you remembering Arkansas?"

Alice concentrated her attention on her daughter, then said, "Mother?"

"Yes, Alice," Joy said, tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm right here."

"We're not from Oklahoma. We're from Arkansas, you fools."

Joy looked at Chad, then turned back to the old woman.

"That's right, Mom. You came here from Arkansas when you were a little girl."

"We came to California," the old woman said. The expression on her face changed, as if she just realized something. "Cal...if...ornia."

# # # #

They were staying at the government camp in Weedpatch, California. Their home was a tent pitched on the edge of the camp next to a dirt field. Meals were prepared in a long building in the middle of the camp. Toast and sausage for breakfast. Beans for lunch. Meat and potatoes for dinner.

Alice's father came back early one morning from the farm where he worked. She saw the truck coming from far away. There were a half-dozen men from the camp riding in the back. They worked at the same farm.

"Look, Mother, there's Daddy." Alice pointed out to the highway.

Alice's mother was peeling some potatoes she had gotten from the camp kitchen. She set down a potato and the knife on an overturned crate and then stood up.

Mother and daughter watched the truck come down the road and turn into the camp. As the truck approached, Alice saw that the expressions on the men's faces were somber. The truck pulled in next to the tent that was the Hamstead home. The men got out of the truck, speaking in low tones.

"Mornin', ma'am," some of the men said to Mrs. Hamstead. The men headed off to their places in the camp.

Alice's dad got out of the truck slowly, as if all his joints were hurting.

"What happened to the work?" Mrs. Hamstead asked quietly.

"We went there to pick oranges for five cents a crate just like yesterday. But we were met up by two men with shotguns at the gate. They said they didn't need us anymore. Said they found some who'd pick for three cents a crate. So here we are."

Alice's Mom picked up a potato and the knife. She handed them to Alice.

"Peel this for me. I need to take a walk."

Alice's Mom came back after a long time. She was smiling.

"Well, we can have beans at the kitchen or potatoes here."

Alice looked at her dad.

"Potatoes will be fine," he said. "I don't feel like talking to anybody right now."

That evening, a sheriff's car crept up and parked inside the camp entrance. No one knew why and nobody asked. A little later, a pickup truck with men in the back came riding into the camp. Some of the men had sticks or baseball bats, others had pistols or rifles. One of the men threw a whiskey bottle from the back and it shattered on the ground.

A young man, barely twenty, shouted, "Yee-ha!" and fired pistol shots into the air. A robust, middle-aged man standing in the back of the pickup made sweeping motions with his hands. "Get out! The government has shut you down. No more free rides, you bums. Okies."

Standing next to his own battered truck with his daughter's arms clinging around his legs, Mr. Hamstead yelled, "We're from Arkansas, not Oklahoma, you fools."

The pickup swung around so sharply that the passengers in the back of the truck scrambled, holding onto each other to keep from falling out. Brakes squealed as the pickup stopped next to Mr. and Mrs. Hamstead and Alice. Mrs. Hamstead had a grim look on her face.

The men jumped out and surrounded them. One man cracked Mr. Hamstead over the head with a baseball bat. Alice's dad crumpled to the ground.

Alice moved back and put her hands over her mouth.

Her mother shouted, "No!" and knelt beside her husband.

The man who had hit Alice's dad looked down at Mrs. Hamstead as if waiting for an objection. Then he turned and climbed back into the pickup. The other men did the same. The driver put the truck in gear and drove off to another part of the camp.

The sheriff's car was still parked in the same place.

# # # #

Alice looked at the two figures standing on the side of her bed as if they had just appeared. They were strangers. In a weak voice she told Chad and Joy that they were fools--because she came from Arkansas and not Oklahoma. Then she turned her head the other way. She looked at the sliding glass door and waited for the men in the truck to come again.

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Copyright © 1999 by Steven R. Buller