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Trevor wondered if Momma was out there soothing Daddy； convincing him that it didn't matter if the car was broken； that this would be a good place to stay。 He hoped so。 Then he picked up the closest reading material at hand； a Robert Crumb ic； and slid across the seat to his brother。 Didi didn't understand all the things that happened in these stories…neither did Trevor； for that matter … but both boys loved the drawings and thought the girls with giant butts were funny。
Back in Texas； Daddy used to joke that Momma had a classic Crumb butt； and Momma would smack him with a sofa pillow。 There had been a big； fortable green sofa in that house。 Sometimes Trevor and Didi would join in the pillow fights too。 If Momma and Daddy were really stoned； they'd wind up giggling so hard that they'd lose their breath； and Trevor and Didi could win。
Daddy didn't make jokes about Momma's butt anymore。 Daddy didn't even read his Robert Crumb ics anymore； he'd given them all to Trevor。 And Trev couldn't remember the last tune they had all had a pillow fight。
He rolled the window down to let in the green…smelling air。 Though it was still faintly rank with the odor of the frying engine； it was fresher than the inside of the car； which smelled of smoke and sour milk and Didi's last accident。 Then he started reading the ic aloud； pointing to each word as he spoke it； making Didi follow along after him。 His brother kept trying to see what Momma and Daddy were doing。 Trevor saw out of the corner of his eye that Daddy had pulled away from Momma and was taking long strides down the highway； away from the car； away from the town。 Momma was hurrying after him； not quite running。 Trevor pulled Didi against him and forced himself not to look； to concentrate on the words and pictures and the stories they formed。
After a few panels it was easy： the ic was all about Mr。 Natural； his favorite Crumb character。 The sight of the clever old hippie…sage forted him； made him forget Daddy's anger and Momma's pain； made him forget he was reading the words for Didi。 The story took him away。
Besides； he knew they would e back。 They always did。 Your parents couldn't just walk away and leave you in the back seat； not when it would be dark soon； not when you were in a strange place and there was nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep and you were only five years old。
Could they？
Momma and Daddy were far down the road now； small gesturing shapes in the distance。 But Trevor could see that they had stopped walking； that they were just standing there。 Arguing； yes。 Yelling； probably。 Maybe crying。 But not going away。
Trevor looked down at the page and fell back into the story。
It turned out they couldn't go anywhere。 Daddy called a mechanic； an immensely tall； skinny young man who was still almost a teenager； with a face as long and pale and kindly as that of the Man in the Moon。 Stitched in bright orange thread on the pocket of his greasy overalls was the improbable name Kinsey。
Kinsey said the Rambler had thrown a rod that had probably been ready to go since New Orleans； and unless they were prepared to drop several hundred bucks into that tired old engine； they might as well push the car off the road and be glad they'd broken down close to a town。 After all； Kinsey pointed out； they might be staying awhile。
Daddy helped him roll the car forward a few feet so that it was pletely off the blacktop。 The body sagged on its tires； two…toned paint a faded turquoise above the dusty strip of chrome that ran along the side； dirty white below。 Trevor thought the Rambler already looked dead。 Daddy's face was very pale； almost bluish； sheened with oily…looking sweat。 When he took off his sunglasses； Trevor saw smudgy purple shadows in the hollows of his eyes。
〃How much do we owe you？〃 Daddy said。 It was obvious from his voice that he dreaded the answer。
Kinsey looked at Momma； at Trevor and Didi in the crooks of her arms； at their clothes and other belongings heaped in the back seat； the duffel bags bulging up from under the roped…down lid of the trunk； the three mattresses strapped to the roof。 His quick blue eyes； as bright as Trevor's and Daddy's were pale； seemed to take in the situation at a glance。 〃For ing out？ Nothing。 My time isn't that valuable； believe me。〃
He lowered his head a little to peer into Daddy's face。 Trevor thought suddenly of an inquisitive giraffe。 〃But don't I know you？ You wouldn't be 。。。 no 。。。 not Robert McGee？ The cartoonist who blew the brainpan off the American underground' in the words of Saint Crumb himself？ 。 。 。 No； no； of course not。 Not in Missing Mile。 Silly of me； sorry。〃
He was already turning away； and Daddy wasn't going to say anything。 Trevor couldn't stand it。 He wanted to run to the tall young man； to yell up into that kind； curious face； Yes； it is him； it is Robert McGee and he's everything you said and he's MY DADDY TOO！ In that moment Trevor felt he would burst with pride for his father。
But Momma's arm tightened around him； holding him back。 One long lacquered nail tapped a warning on his forearm。 〃Sh；〃 he heard her say softly。
And Daddy； Robert McGee； Bobby McGee； creator of the crazed； sick； beautiful ic Birdland； whose work had appeared beside Crumb's and Shelton's； in Zap！ and the L。A。 Free Press and the East Village Other and everywhere in between； all across the country 。 。 。 who had received and refused offers from the same Hollywood he had once drawn as a giant blood…swollen tick still clinging to the rotten corpse of a dog labeled Art 。 。 。 who had once had a steady hand and a pure； scathing vision 。。。
Daddy only shook his head and looked away。
Just past downtown Missing Mile； a road splits off to the left from Firehouse Street and meanders away into scrubby countryside。 The fields out here are nearly barren； the soil gone infertile…most believe from overfarming and lack of crop rotation。 Only the oldest residents of town still say these fields are cursed； and were once sowed with salt。 The good land is on the other side of town； the side toward Corinth； out where the abandoned railyard and the deep woods are。 Firehouse Street runs into State Highway 42。 The road that splits off to the left soon bees gravel； then dirt。 This is the poorest part of Missing Mile； the place called Violin Road。
Out here the best places to live are decrepit farmhouses； big rambling places with high ceilings and large cool rooms； most of which were abandoned or sold years ago as the crops went bad。 A step below these are the aluminum trailers and tarpaper shacks； their dirt yards choked with broken toys； rusting hulks of autos； and other trash； their peripheries negligently guarded by slat…sided； soporific hounds。
Out here only the wild things are healthy； the old trees whose roots find sustenance far below the ill…used layer of topsoil； the occasional rosebush gone to green thicket and thorns； the unstoppable kudzu。 It is as if they have decided to take back the land for their own。
Trevor loved it。 It was where he discovered that he could draw even if Daddy couldn't。
Momma talked to a real estate agent in town and figured out tha