to push like tumors against his waxy flesh. My mind raced to catch the nuggets of knowledge before they were doused in the stew of his affliction. Then he abruptly quieted. He stood straight and lifted his chin. The rustle of the trees and the ringing of the crickets became as noisome as the din of a cafeteria.
“This is no fun. That’s the problem. This is no fun at all.” The blazing blue of his good eye resisted the warming dawn. “War medals? Rosaries? Toupees? Those aren’t why I dig. Those aren’t why you came to me, either. It’s because of that other thing. My purpose. Your purpose, too, maybe. You want to see it?”
He took hold of his lapel. Through the frowzy and time-worn fabric I recognized the rectangular impression of a book. My heartbeat accelerated. It was with abstract disappointment that I felt the nodding of my head and the dryness of my lips. Perhaps just a glimpse of the thing would slake my thirst.
The lapel settled flat. He smoothed it back into place.
“Not tonight,” he said. “It’s getting late. Maybe tomorrow. You think it’s worth it? One more day? How about it. One more day. Then you can have me. Fair trade, even steven. What do you say?”
Even then I knew that my revenge would wait. If I wanted to be the greatest Digger of all time, I could not be like the others, terrified of what Lionel called Boggs’s innovations. My head was already nodding as if yanked by a noose. He had me.
28.
TIME PASSED LIKE LABORED breaths: two days became three became four. I didn’t know when Boggs slept—his blue eye put me to bed and greeted me each morning. This unblinking sentry never faltered; I continued to bide my time until time got lost. It became progressively easier to forget Bloughton. Like any writer, I was completely absorbed in the creation of a book. Everything else paled in importance.
During our time near the Missouri River, no holes were dug. It pained him; I saw him press the book into his chest as if it were his failing heart. When it became clear that each of us would extend the other’s life a little while longer, the first thing we did was return to his home base of California. The instant we left we eliminated the possibility of Harnett’s hunting me down. In his disheveled state, he wouldn’t be able to track me past Iowa’s borders. I tried not to care. Harnett was a lost cause; Boggs was the only Digger alive who sustained the same degree of passion as I.
Our Hyundai ditched on an L.A. freeway and our various bundles transported to a new shopping cart, we took to the streets. Geographical separation from his brother affected Boggs in unpleasant ways. He became more irascible with each push of the cart. He sneered so hard his lip split up the center. He rushed around as if he were keeping us to some set schedule, disappearing sometimes for hours and coming home adrenalized and red-faced, coat pockets rustling with what I suspected were drugs. The only items he showed me, however, were frivolous. One afternoon he returned with a top hat he’d found rolling around a parking lot. He described how he had chased it for twenty minutes. He screwed it onto his pink and flaking scalp with obvious relish, his costume completed at last.
Thus attired, he hastened us to his favorite marble farm and demanded from me a demonstration of what I had learned. It was our first dig. The western dirt was unfamiliar, but it didn’t take long to make adjustments. Nevertheless I longed for the Root. I hoped Harnett was getting some use out of her. I hated to think of an instrument of such quality sidelined.
So I worked in the balmy California night with Boggs’s battered piece of junk. He squatted several feet away, tearing through my backpack in search of food. He pulled out the trumpet and with it blew a few flatulent noises.
“I hope you’re not counting on morning reveilles,” he said. “I sleep late.”
I was deep enough to not have to see his face when he withdrew the femur.
“Now, what in the world is this?” He moaned softly. I imagined him stroking it with his small, dirty fingers. “That’s some leg, and I’ve seen my share. That’s a starlet leg, there. A runway model leg. No wonder you tote it with you. A leg like that could make