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236 53 We drove the rest of the way to Idaho Falls in si lence. Where I got us a motel room. Two dou ble beds. I didn’t know how that was going to work out until Louis climbed into one of them and said, “Do what you gotta do, but don’t make too much noise.” And he guf fawed and van ished under the cov ers, turn ing his head to the far wall. Eu gene hit the lights and then si dled up to me and grabbed the hem of my Red Hot Chili Pep per (the gar ment, not the meta phor) T-shirt, and over my head it went. In no time, I was smoth ered in the silk of him. What the hell’s a winkte? I re mem ber think ing—some body who winks? It sure feels good what ever it is. He cupped his hand over my mouth at the cru cial mo ment of melt down. And I spent the night hold ing Eu gene, and dream ing that I was gath er ing up a par a chute, fold ing and fold ing the silk of it, hav ing flown and want ing to fly again. Iwoke up early, to Louis’s snor ing and the whis per of Eugene’s breath and the peace of his un con torted face. We’d car ried my bike up the stairs and into the room and it leaned against a dresser, all packed up and ready to go. These men had been good to me. Some white kid, prob ably with an ces tors who’d blasted away at buf falo and into that ditch at Wounded Knee Creek. Ask for noth ing back. A bit late for that. My turn to van ish, Eu gene. 237 It wasn’t later than six and cold, and I had to pile on Jimmy’s old ratty green sweater for warmth, his red wind breaker over that, and his long johns to boot. I yanked a string off the poly es ter bed spread and tied it onto the bike, and then I quietly rolled out the door. I fum bled with the map out on the street and found my way to the high way that led into Wy o ming. I didn’t even stop for pan cakes—just wolfed down some god-awful sweet rolls at a mini mart. By the time I hit the Snake River, clouds had gath ered and it started to rain. I pulled off and got out Jimmy’s pon cho, tucked him up in side the wind breaker, and got back on the road. They found me that way, ped al ing along in the rain, a rooster tail of water be hind me as the tires hummed their wet, re volv ing song—the bi cy cle waltz: one, two, three. This time they didn’t bother ask ing, just slowed down, the tail lights glow ing red (one of them any way). And out hopped Eu gene. And the same rou tine as be fore got my bike into the truck bed and me up front, hand in his hand, thigh against his thigh. They said noth ing. Just the wind shield wip ers and their for lorn lit tle squeaks speak ing woe. We drove all the way up the Snake River like that, past pas ture land and hill sides of beau ti ful char treuse quak ing aspen, on through the hor ror of Jack son Hole and its bou tiques and faux out-west décor. Up through the Grand Te tons (they really are pur ple moun tain ma jesty, but only Ray Charles knows how to sing that song with joy and sor row) and on into Yel low stone, where we stopped at a big yel low lodge that was al most empty, scal ing back ser vices as the sum mer sea son had al ready waned. I bought them gas, and while the tank guz zled it up and Eu gene found a bath room, Louis stared at the sky and its light, inter mit tent rain. “Let’s hope the thun der be ings aren’t out.” “Why?” “Be cause they might make you dream about them, and after that you’ll have to do every thing back wards.” I didn’t re call dream ing of them, but that...
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