“2R-58-01. 2R-58-01.
All right.
I’ve got it too.”
“O.K.”
He came around from behind, and looked like he felt better.
“You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“When you laugh.
Is a echo.
Is a fine echo.”
He tossed off a high note.
It wasn’t any song, just a high note, like on a Caruso record.
He cut if off quick and listened.
Sure enough, here it came back, clear as anything, and stopped, just like he had.
“Is a sound like me?”
“Jus’ like you, kid.
Jussa same ol’ toot.”
“By golly. Is swell.”
He stood there for five minutes, tossing off high notes and listening to them come back.
It was the first time he ever heard what his voice sounded like.
He was as pleased as a gorilla that seen his face in the mirror.
She kept looking at me.
We had to get busy.
I began to act sore.
“Wot th’ hell?
You think we got noth’n t’ do but lis’n at you yod’l at y’self all night?
C’me on, get in.
Le’s get going.”
“It’s getting late, Nick,”
“Hokay, hokay.”
He got in, but shoved his face out to the window and let go one.
I braced my feet, and while he still had his chin on the window sill I brought down the wrench.
His head cracked, and I felt it crush.
He crumpled up and curled on the seat like a cat on a sofa.
It seemed a year before he was still.
Then Cora, she gave a funny kind of gulp that ended in a moan.
Because here came the echo of his voice.
It took the high note, like he did, and swelled, and stopped, and waited.
Chapter 8
We didn’t say anything.
She knew what to do.
She climbed back, and I climbed front.
I looked at the wrench under the dash light.
It had a few drops of blood on it.
I uncorked a bottle of wine, and poured it on there till the blood was gone.
I poured so the wine went over him.
Then I wiped the wrench on a dry part of his clothes, and passed it back to her.
She put it under the seat.
I poured more wine over where I had wiped the wrench, cracked the bottle against the door, and laid it on top of him.
Then I started the car.