The Man Who Never Looked Surprised

Bruce LeRoy strummed his Puerto Rican flag hair pick through his fro. It snagged the third time through. “God lovin’ son-of-a-basket weaver!”

He saw the boy in the visor mirror before the boy saw the cab. He came out of the dark beyond Rooster’s II with his shoulders pitched forward and his chin tucked, walking as if every step had already been argued over and settled. One hand held a canvas duffel low against his leg. The other stayed empty, fingers opening and closing beneath the parking-lot lights.

Rain had blackened the asphalt without cooling it. The rain tends to carry heat into Florida. The boy crossed without looking toward the diner windows or the road. He opened the rear door and set the bag on the floorboard. Metal clanged inside. The canvas folded around something long that held its shape.

Bruce’s hand reached for the gearshift and stopped. His eyes closed. A long breath moved through his nose. He held it, then let it go. Not fear. Not surprise. Just a man finding the bottom stair in the dark. He opened his eyes and checked the mirror again. The boy had both hands on his knees. His back never touched the seat.

Bruce slapped the visor shut and turned the key one click.

“Where we headed?”

The boy gave him an address without searching for it. “Eighty-six Gardenia. Palmetto Oaks.” Bruce looked through the windshield at the wet road. His thumb rubbed once across the worn leather of the steering wheel.

He twisted the key. The cab fired to life.

For two blocks, the tires did the talking. Frogs answered from the drainage ditches. Smeared neon from twenty-four-hour gambling halls gave way to closed pawnshops, laundromats, and little churches gone dark.

The boy watched the houses pass one at a time.

Bruce adjusted the rearview mirror. “You ever notice Lee Van Cleef never looked surprised?” The boy’s eyes lifted. “Who?” Bruce held the boy’s eyes in the mirror. “That hurts. Man had cheekbones sharp enough to open mail. Played cowboys and killers, mostly men waiting on other men to make poor decisions.” Bruce turned beneath the yellow light.

The boy looked back toward the window. “I don’t watch old movies.” “They weren’t old when I watched ’em.” Bruce drummed two fingers against the wheel. “That’s how old movies get you. They wait.” Nothing changed in the boy’s face. One knee bounced. His hand stopped it. It started again.

Bruce took the long way around Lake Adelaide. The boy noticed at the second light. “Gardenia’s south.” “Roadwork.” “There ain’t roadwork.” Bruce glanced at the orange barricades stacked beside an empty utility truck. “There could be. City’s ambitious.”

The boy leaned forward. The duffel shifted between his boots. Metal rolled inside, then settled. Bruce kept his eyes on the road. “You eat?” “Just drive.” “That was the plan. Eating was a separate inquiry.”

The boy’s jaw tightened. A muscle worked near his ear. “You always talk this much?” Bruce considered it. “No.” He scratched his nose. “Sometimes I sing.” One corner of the boy’s mouth lifted. He sat back half an inch, caught himself, and came forward again.

They passed the entrance to Palmetto Oaks without turning. The boy saw the sign go by in the rain-splattered glass. “You missed it.” Bruce drove another hundred yards and turned onto a sugar-sand lane through a cemetery beneath low live oaks and wet Spanish moss. The boy’s hand went to the duffel zipper.

Bruce stopped beneath a broken lamp and shut off the engine. “Leave that closed.” The boy looked at him for the first time. Not through the mirror. At him. “You don’t know what’s in there.” Bruce opened his door.

He stepped into the wet grass and walked between the stones. Behind him, the rear door opened. The boy left the duffel bag where it was. Bruce stopped at a flat marker darkened by rain.

He cleared leaves from the name. The boy came no closer than three paces. “Who’s that?” Bruce stood with his hands in the pockets of his vest. The grave held a man’s name, two dates, and nothing that explained either of them. “Fellow I knew.”

Bruce looked toward the road beyond the trees, where headlights passed and disappeared. The boy waited. “He hurt somebody?” “Everybody hurts somebody.” Bruce’s gaze came back to the stone. “Some men just make a trade of it.” The boy’s breathing had changed. Shorter now. He looked toward the cab, then toward the cemetery gate. “What happened to him?” Bruce rubbed the gray in his goatee with one thumb. “I happened to him.”

Rain ticked through the oak leaves.

The boy stared at Bruce’s back. “He deserve it?” Bruce let the rain gather on his shoulders. “That question kept me warm for a long time.” The boy swallowed. “That ain’t an answer.” “It was mine.” Bruce looked down at the grave. “Till it wasn’t.” Beyond the wall, a truck changed gears. The boy’s hands released something invisible at his sides.

“Did it fix anything?”

Bruce looked at the last date on the stone cut beneath the name. “No.” The boy lowered his head. His hands stayed open.

They walked back to the cab without speaking. The boy opened the rear door and looked at the duffel. His fingers touched the handle, then moved back. He climbed into the front seat and pulled the door shut.

Bruce started the engine. “Where to?” The boy gave him another address, six blocks from Rooster’s II. Bruce put the cab in drive. “Good. I was getting worried you lived at the trailer park.” The boy looked at him. A short breath came through his nose.

Bruce turned toward town. Behind them, the duffel lay on the rear floorboard, quiet as a thing that had not yet decided what it was for.