As they shuttled down the empty road Witticker thought on what Harvey had told him as they walked to the car.
“If you don’t know where you’re goin’ or why you’re goin’ there you might as well start out at a place where you can get yourself food and shelter.”
While Witticker hadn’t been very keen on the idea of a long ride in a small space with Harvey he couldn’t deny the not-so-subtle logic in his statement. He had also done some thinking since hearing the late correspondence from Brisby and couldn’t deny that he was mildly curious about why he had been living alone for thirty years. He resolved that if he was going to find out anything at all it would be more probable to surface where people were gathered as opposed to a dusty road in the middle of nowhere. In addition, his feet had grown sore, so Witticker decided to suck it up and take the ride.
Since he had made his decision they had been traveling for two hours and Witticker had still not seen any trace of life, just endless fields of grass on either side of the road. To stave off conversation he had taken out the white box and had been trying to operate it with varying degrees of success.
“No,” said the memory box as Witticker pressed a button labeled “Menu”.
“You know,” said Harvey, “I always wondered what it is you did out at that farmhouse.”
Witticker had noticed, in their short time together, that when Harvey asked questions, which he often did; he never quite phrased them as questions. They instead took on the form of statements that implied the existence of questions.
“So, I wonder when we should eat.”
“You know, I’ve always wondered who your parents might be.”
The structure of the statement seemed to infer that Harvey was directing his question inward, or that is how Witticker chose to see it. In any case, Witticker justified ignoring Harvey until he was confronted with a direct line of questioning, in which there would be no room for misinterpretation.
“Hey,” said Harvey, patting Witticker on the shoulder, “you awake? What is it that you did with your time out there?”
Witticker put the white box back in the briefcase and stared out the side window.
“What most people do, I guess. Whatever I wanted.”
“Yeah, I figured that much, but did you have any hobbies? Anything you did for fun? I mean, you didn’t just sit around staring at the wall all day did you?”
Harvey laughed at the last part of his own comment. Witticker, un-amused, sat silent as he tried to determine if he had any hobbies. He didn’t really identify his day-to-day affairs as “hobbies” so much as he saw them as a means of self-improvement.
“Well, I read and I painted. I kept a garden in the basement windows and I exercised every morning. Not a terribly exciting life, but I liked it.”
Harvey nodded and murmured in agreement as he looked down the road. Witticker bathed himself in the momentary silence that followed, knowing he had only seconds as Harvey was inevitably preparing another barrage of questions.
“So, I figure you never got lonely out there, seeing as how I haven’t seen you in twenty-five years.”
Witticker shook his head at the half-question and decided to humor the aged driver.
“Nope. I was fine.”
“Can’t imagine it myself, but whatever suits ya is fine by me. I figured I’d see ya one of the times I was out there, but notta once. Not in twenty-five long ones.”
Witticker could sense that Harvey was moderately suspicious of his absence, but he felt that the truth wouldn’t help matters. The fact of the matter was that Witticker knew that someone, evidently Harvey, had been coming to the house every week to deliver his food. He had timed out the arrival of the delivery man and made it a point to be in the basement and out of sight during those times.
“Ah well, doesn’t matter. Anyway, how was the house when you left it? Still in good shape? I was thinking of getting some of the furniture out of the den there to take back to the farm, seeing as how you won’t be there to use it or anything.”
“You won’t be able to do that, Harvey,” said Witticker quietly.
“What’s that?”
Witticker started to pick the dirt out of his fingernails.
“I burned the house down, so you won’t be able to get the furniture from the den.”
Suddenly the silence that Witticker had yearned for filled the cab of the truck. Harvey scanned the horizon with a puzzled look as Witticker shifted himself in his seat so that he was positioned away from Harvey, facing the side window.
“So, you burned the…”
“Just let it go, Harvey,” said Witticker rigidly, “Just let it go.”
* ~~ *
It was another hour before Harvey attempted to communicate with Witticker again.
“So,” the driver said tentatively, “whatcha think you’re gonna do after I drop ya off?”
The same question had been circling around in Witticker’s head since he had decided to take the ride from Harvey back at the farmhouse.
“Well, I’m not entirely sure. I guess I’ll go to the nearest library and see if they have any record of me.”
Witticker wasn’t quite sure if that was his exact plan, as his only lead was his own name; and only a first one at that, but he figured that was enough information to sate Harvey for the time being.
“Ah, well. The thing about the library,” said Harvey casually, “is that there isn’t one.”
“What do you mean?” asked Witticker.
“Well, it’s complicated. You see, after the decline most of the libraries were either burned down or looted. Depended on who got there first really.”
Witticker turned sharply to Harvey with a look of mild confusion.
“Decline?”
“Oh. Shit. Well,” said Harvey as he reached for his cigarettes, “it’s complicated.”
Harvey pulled out a cigarette and held the pack towards Witticker.
“You want one?”
Witticker didn’t know much about smoking, but could see that it wasn’t doing much for Harvey.
“I don’t smoke.”
Harvey chuckled as he lit the cigarette.
“You may want to start.”
* ~~ *
Three hours later Witticker sat motionless as Harvey blew a puff of smoke out the window.
“…and that is pretty much it. At least, that’s as much as I know and all I know is what Brisby told me. Like I said, I was born in this area and nobody around here ever had the same story about what happened. All the stories stay the same until the point where the televisions went off and then people make up all kinds of shit. My dad was born a few years after everybody moved out of the cities. He grew up on the farm and when he got old enough he just took it over. The decline didn’t hurt the farmers much and once the distrips got up and runnin’ people stopped lootin’ the fields for food.”
Harvey threw his cigarette out the window and pulled another one from the pack.
“You sure you don’t want one?”
Witticker didn’t move.
“Guess not. Whatever. Anyway, I was plannin’ to take the farm like my dad did, but Brisby came through and changed all that. Said he needed a good farmer and I figured, why not? Anyway, now you know as much as I do.”
Witticker nodded and leaned his head against the side window.
“You goin’ to sleep?” asked Harvey.
Witticker nodded and closed his eyes as he shifted around on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Probably for the best. We’ve still got a ways to go and you’re gonna need some shut-eye. Oh, hey!,” said Harvey excitedly, “Look, at this thing. Never been able to figure out what it is exactly, but I think it’s what they used to call this place before everything went up in flames. Last one still standing between here and the distrip. Up ahead!”
Witticker opened his eyes against the cold window to see a green sign hanging over the road supported at an angle by a rusty iron column. The sign was black with dirt and had several rusty holes decorating its’ surface. Through the grime, Witticker made out the words, “Crown Point, 1 ½ miles”.
“Sounds like a nice place,” said Harvey longingly.
“Couldn’t have been too nice,” said Witticker bitterly as he turned and closed his eyes, “or someone would have been around to remember it.”
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