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d 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 that they could afford to rent one of the dilapidated farmhouses for a month。 By that time； she said； she would find a job in Missing Mile and Daddy would be drawing。 Sure enough； a few days after they moved their things into the house； a dress shop hired Momma as a salesgirl。 The job was no fun…she couldn't wear jeans to work； which left her with a choice of one Indian…print skirt and blouse or one patchwork dress…but she ate lunch at the diner in town and sometimes stopped for coffee after her shift。 Soon she met some of the kids they'd seen going into the record store； and others like them。
If she could drive to Raleigh or Chapel Hill； they told Momma； she could make good money modeling for university art classes。 Momma talked to Kinsey at the garage； who let her set up a payment plan。 A week later the Rambler had a brand…new engine； and Momma quit the dress shop and started driving to Raleigh several times a week。
Daddy had his things set up in a tiny fourth bedroom at the back of the house； his untidy jumble of inks and brushes and his drawing table； the one piece of furniture they had brought from Austin。 He went in there and shut the door every morning after Momma left； and he stayed in there most of the day。 Trevor had no idea whether he was drawing or not。
But Trevor was。 He had found an old sketchbook of Daddy's when Momma unpacked the car。 Most of the pages had been torn out； but there were still a few blank sheets left。 Trevor usually took Didi outside to play in the daytime…Momma had assured him that the Devil's Tramping Ground was more than forty miles away； so he didn't have to worry about accidentally ing upon the pacing； muttering demon。
When Didi was napping…something he seemed to do more and more often these days…Trevor wandered through the house； looking at the bare floorboards and the water…stained walls； wondering if anyone had ever loved this house。 One afternoon he found himself in the dim； shabby kitchen； perched on one of the rickety chairs that had e with the house； a felt…tip pen in his hand； the sketchbook on the table before him。 He had no idea what he was going to draw。 He had hardly ever thought about drawing before； that was what Daddy did。 Trevor could remember scribbling with crayons on cheap newsprint when he was Didi's age； making great round heads with stick arms and legs ing straight out of them； as small children do。 This circle with five dots in it is Momma； this one is Daddy； that one's me。 But he hadn't drawn for at least a year…not since Daddy stopped。
Daddy had told him once that the trick was not to think about it； not in your sketchbook anyway。 You just had to find the path between your hand and your heart and your brain and see what came out。 Trevor uncapped the pen and put its tip against the unblemished （though slightly yellowed） page of the sketchbook。 The ink began to bleed into the paper； making a small spreading dot； a tiny black sun in a pale void。 Then； slowly； Trevor's hand began to move。
He soon discovered he was drawing Skeletal Sammy； a character from Daddy's ic book； Birdland。 Sammy was all straight lines and sharp points： easy to draw。 The half…leering； half…desperate face； the long black coat that hung on Sammy's shoulders like a pair of broken wings； the spidery hands and the long thin legs and the exaggerated bulge of Sammy's kneecaps beneath his black stovepipe pants…all began to take shape。
Trevor sat back and looked at the drawing。 It was nowhere near as good as Daddy's Sammy； of course； the lines weren't straight； the black inking was more like scribbling。 But it was no circle with five dots； either。 It was immediately recognizable as Skeletal Sammy。
Daddy recognized it as soon as he walked into the kitchen。
He leaned over Trevor's shoulder for several moments looking at the drawing。 One hand rested lightly on Trev's back； the other tapped the table nervously； fingers as long and thin as Sammy's； faint lavender veins visible beneath the pale skin； silver wedding ring too loose on the third finger。 For a moment Trevor feared Daddy might snatch the drawing； the whole sketchbook； he felt as if he had been caught doing something wrong。
But Daddy only kissed the top of Trevor's head。 〃You draw a mean junkie； kiddo；〃 he whispered into Trevor's ginger hair。 And he was gone from the kitchen silently； like a ghost； without getting the beer or glass of water or whatever he had e for； leaving his elder son half elated and half dreadfully； mysteriously ashamed。
The carefully drawn fingers of Sammy's left hand were blurring。 A drop of moisture on the page； making the ink bleed and furl。 Trevor touched the wetness； then put his finger to his lips。 Salty。 A tear。
Daddy's； or his own？
The worst thing happened the following week。 It turned out Daddy had been drawing in his cramped little studio。 Had finally finished a story； only a page long； and sent it off to one of his papers。 Trevor couldn't remember if it was the Barb or the Freep or maybe one of the others…he got them mixed up sometimes。
The paper rejected the story。 Daddy read the letter aloud in a hollow； mocking voice。 It had been a difficult decision； the editor said； considering his reputation and the selling power of his name。 However； he simply didn't feel the story approached the quality of Daddy's previous work； and he thought publishing it would be bad both for the paper and for Daddy's career。
It was the kindest way the editor could find to say This ic is a piece of shit。
The next day； Daddy walked into town and called the publisher of Birdland。 The stories for the fourth issue were already nearly a year overdue。 Daddy told the publisher there would be no more stories； not now； not ever。 Then he hung up the pay phone and walked a mile across town to the liquor store。 By the time he got home； he had already cracked the seal on a gallon jug of bourbon。
Momma had begun staying later and later in the city after her modeling jobs…having drinks with some of the other models one night； going to someone's apartment to get stoned the next。 Daddy didn't like tha