The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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       13

      Soon’s we get out of Kansas, two things happen. One, we start getting into nice little hills, not mountains, not even hilly as the Morvan, but it isn’t just one great, checkered tablecloth anymore. The second thing is everything turns green and humid.

      When we stop for gas and I step out of the car, the air’s so thick, hot and heavy I can’t breathe. I climb right back into the joy of canned air. Out there looks just fine through cool air and tinted glass. This luxury tank makes sense now.

      We drive along across Missouri toward St Louis. I’m at the wheel. Dad pulls out a notebook and starts scribbling. I figure he’s toting up how much we’ve spent so far with gas, motels and eating. Boy, is he in for a surprise; it’d’ve been cheaper going first class in an airplane.

      We’ve gone maybe thirty miles when Dad clears his throat.

      ‘Listen to this, Bill; tell me what you think. It’s called “God’s Joke”:

      ‘Adam lived alone on the old ranch Eden

      Just playin’, thinkin’, sleepin’, and feedin’.

      He was pickin’ flowers in his garden one day’n’

      God came down to teach Adam about prayin’.

      Adam didn’t know God was making up sin

      And wasn’t quite sure just how to begin.

      “Pray hard,” God said, “Pray with your life,

      Pray for money, or power. Pray for a wife.”

      “What’s that, God?” says Adam, scratchin’ his head,

      “Some new kinda fruit, somethin’ soft for my bed?”

      “That’s right,” God said, smilin’ and grinnin’,

      ’Cause now he knew how to start Adam sinnin’.

      Adam woke next mornin’ with a stitch in his side

      And a cute little critter sayin’ she was his bride.

      This critter, named Eve, had two bumps and a hole

      And knew just how to steal a man’s soul.

      Adam fenced off the ranch and took up the hoe,

      Planted taters ’n’ cotton and corn in a row.

      Eve raised Cain, then Cain slayed Abel,

      And God laughed his ass off all the way to the stable.’

      We start laughing. He’s proud of this crazy song; he’s going over it, making corrections, improving it; laughing to himself. Maybe all that shit with Grandma and Granddad was too much. I might be delivering a basket case to Mom.

      We start seeing big advertisements for caves along the road. One’s called Meramec, the other Onondaga. Dad wants to visit one, only he isn’t sure which. It’s a good fifty miles out of the way, however we go.

      It seems, fifteen years ago, my parents drove cross-country and visited a cave. All these years, he’s carried in his mind the idea I was too young to appreciate it then but he’s convinced I’ll like it now.

      When he gets an idea like this, there’s no stopping him; it’s only a question of which cave; Bryce and Zion all over again. Somehow he decides it’s Onondaga. I’m sure it’ll be the wrong cave. But it doesn’t matter. We’re in for a cave.

      We drive through rolling green countryside; he’s manning the maps. We go along small roads, then come down on a place fixed up like one of the national parks.

      They’ve got rocks squared off and cemented together, with rough-cut signs hanging on chains. These have burned-out letters like brandings. Everything very woodsy. All these signs have arrows pointing toward Onondaga Cave.

      But it turns out this isn’t a national park at all. This is a bit of free enterprise. Somebody bought these caves and developed a tourist attraction. They figured people are going stark raving mad driving cross-country with only Stuckey’s peanut brittle to break the monotony, so they’ll come in to see anything.

      There’s a gigantic parking lot three-quarters full and seething with Americana in Dacron colors, checkered shorts and kids in Keds.

      We’ve hardly gotten the car stopped and the motor turned off when an old guy, in what looks like an ice-cream-salesman costume, comes over and collects fifty cents for parking. Before we can move, he’s whipped out a sticker with an Indian arrowhead on it and stuck this thing on the back window. I dash to scrape it off but it’s practically vulcanized by the heat. That Mafia stud in Philadelphia will want some reason for an arrowhead named Onondaga; imagine explaining to the mob. He’ll probably cover it with a decal of crossed American flags.

      This place is notorious for two things. Jesse James and his band are supposed to have hidden gold somewhere in the cave. That’s got to be good for at least an extra thousand admissions per year. The other thing, Mark Twain is said to have used this cave as a model for the one where Tom Sawyer and Becky get lost.

      Can you believe it, three bucks to walk into a hole? But Dad’s a follow-through type so he plunks out the money.

      A six-foot-tall Boy Scout herds us into the cave, passing out gems like how to tell a stalagmite from a stalactite. Would you believe it? A stalagmite might reach the ceiling, a stalactite holds tight to the ceiling; so much for geology.

      First there’s the James brothers’ hideout. This is competition for the Knott’s Berry Farm Award of the Year. Even Disneyland is better than this. There’s one part with gigantic ‘gold nuggets’ sticking conveniently out of the ground. They also have a section with fluorescent rock and black light beamed on them, probably gathered those rocks from all over America.

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