The End of the Line

“Jeffrey?”

There was no answer.

“Jeffrey! Are we there yet?”

“Buddy-boy, shut the hell up!” Jeffrey rose part way out of the driver's seat and projected his voice backward before he realized the logging-truck and quickly faced forward as he swung the car back into his own lane and the big headlights and the big air-horn nearly gave him a heart-attach.

They drove on. Smooth road. Ash fault. Jeffrey facing straight ahead. His heart pounding.

“You know, Jeffrey... Nobody likes you.., ”

“Can't quite hear'ya there, buddy-boy,” Jeffrey called back.

“Yes you can...”

“No I can't.”

“You can hear me, Jeffrey...”

“No I can't,” said Jeffrey.

“I said, 'Nobody...likes....you,' Jeffrey! Nobody! No...No...No...Body!”

There was radio music then, loud music, then different loud music, then still different loud music, and then, finally, a steady radio station.

“Well, well, well,” came the voice. “Country Music! Who'd a thought a hick like you would like country music?”

“Can't hear you.”

“Yes you can.”

“Can't.”

This time from the trunk, like the Voice of God-- “Do you know who I am?”

The car stopped. There was silence.

“I'm Vincent Morrelli!”

“Can't hear you."

The sound of gravel. Walking.

“You can hear me!”

“No, I can't.”

“Yes you can!”

Then there was a train whistle.

“Jeffrey!”

Again the train whistle. Louder.

“Jeffrey!”

This time the train whistle was very loud, and very near.

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