Free Motorman by David Ohle Page B

ate the body. “Roquette, do you know Burnheart and Eagleman? ”
    Roquette drew an x in the circle. “Yes, I know them, in a sense. I went to school with Burnheart, played a little snooker with Eagleman. Why do you ask?”
    “Only wondering,” Moldenke said. “No reason.” Yellow cricket fluids ringed his lips, scales and legs hung in his scanty beard.
    “You're a man of the earth,” Roquette said. “I can easily see that. We could get along, you and me. Take your nose out of Burnheart's book. I'll take you south in my boat.”
    “You know where they are, Roquette? Will you drop me off there?”
    “No promises, Moldenke. I'll do what I can. I'm not exactly the lord ruler of the boat. The other folks will have to be consulted on every possibility. We'll see. Don't get excited. It's bad for-—”
    “I know, the hearts. How did you know about the heart job, Roquette?”
    “I heard you ticking, son. I heard the bleating. There isn't anyone in these parts as perceptive as myself, Moldenke. Did I introduce myself? The name is Roquelle, with two l's.”
    Moldenke shook the corn cob hand again. “Before you said Roquette, with t's.”
    “My apologies, Dink. Did I? Old brains turn to rocks, son. We'll leave it at Roquette. No sense in carrying on any more than we have to. Shall we head for the boat?”
    The suns went down, an egg-shaped moon came up above the treetops. They walked toward the river as the evening froze, Roquette's stick sucking in and out of the mud.
    “How many other people on the boat, Roquette?”
    “Hard to say, Dink. They seem to come and go. You know the housing premium, even here in the bottoms. You might say it was a houseboat.”
    “A houseboat?”
    “Maybe. You might say that.”
    “On the river? ”
    “Yes, I'd say it was a river. Things appear to float on it. As a fact of matter it has a name, The Jelly. Do you remember The Jelly from your earth courses, son? You passed the survival exam, am I right?”
    “I passed the survival exam, but that was on paper. You never know. I don't think I know my rivers very well, I'm sorry.”
    “C-minus, son. C-minus. You should know your rivers. How do you expect to navigate? It used to be known as The Odorous. Does that strike a chord?”
    “Sure, The Odorous. I remember The Odorous.”
    “Things change, Moldenke. You stay in your room and never look out. Things change. You should pace yourself. When I was a boy I ate potato peels from garbage bins. A man starts out with ropes to be climbed. Some of them stretch, but he shouldn't give up. Try another rope. Sooner or later you'll grab a tight one. I played some football, too. Nowadays I sit downstairs by the fireplace and look at the clockpiece on the mantelboard. Sometimes I'll turn on the lamp and read the book. Only the tripodero had all the wisdoms of living, and there he is, extinct. What can we do, Moldenke? Things change.”
    They stood on the banks of The Jelly, Roquette pissing into the thick, oily flow. Moldenke imagined starlight. Another moon was up. At the far bank he saw the boat lights, heard the fog whistle.
    A turd washed over his shoe and receded. The corpse of a horse, some of the dray lumber still attached to the harness, floated by.
    Roquette pierced the water with his stick. “Good,” he said. “It's thick enough to walk on.”
    They walked the bank looking for foot boards. Moldenke found two for himself and tied them on with cloth rope from a torn shirt.
    They walked across The Jelly.
     
    63]
     
    Mr. Moldenke
    The Tropical Garden
     
    Dear Sir,
    An attendant, yesterday evening, noticed Miss Roberta approaching death in the sun room. He went to her and did what he was able to under the circumstances, although she never was a cooperative patient. Enclosed is a note we found in her pocket. (The note: My diet has included specifically ice cubes, period. A Doctor told me my skin would thicken and grow brown, comma, and it did, period. However, comma, I always refused to