Anything Could Happen

by Will Walton

I shake my head.

  Dad won’t let it go, though. “Well, of course he wants his music—he’s Tretch, isn’t he?” He reaches over to the glove compartment and yanks it open.

  “Okay, okay,” Mom says. She takes out the CD player and hands it to me. “It’ll be nice to start using your iPod, won’t it, Tretch?”

  “It will be,” I say.

  I slide the headphones over my ears and press the play button, but nothing happens. I try again. “I think the batteries are dead,” I say, pulling the headphones off.

  We’ve already started down the driveway. Dad turns his head. “We can stop and get you some on the way home,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Dad, no.”

  “You sure?” he asks. “It would just be a quick stop.” He presses on the brake.

  “Dad,” I say, looking hard at him. “I am fine. I swear.”

  “Richard, he’s fine,” Mom says. But Dad’s eyes are locked onto mine, searching them.

  Really, I mouth.

  Dad nods. Open it, he mouths back. Then he turns around and lets off the brake. The car rolls into motion. I glance at Joe—his eyes are closed, his forehead resting against the window.

  I pop open the CD player.

  Inside is a tiny sliver of folded paper. It looks like a fortune from a fortune cookie. I unfold it and find a short note written in blue ink.

  Tretch, I promise. Everything is going to be OK. I love you.

  —Dad

  I glance up at the rearview mirror, and sure enough, Dad is looking. I nod. He blinks once and looks away. I close my eyes and tip my head against the headrest. A single tear slides from the corner of my eye and makes its way down my cheek. I think about Grandma and Granddad, probably just now sitting back down at the kitchen table to finish their coffees. I think about Matt and his dads; maybe they’re ice-skating in Rockefeller Center or something. For a second, I wonder about Nana and Papa, about Christmas in Dallas with my cousins on Mom’s side. I think about that stupid Chitty Chitty Bang Bang DVD, my new polo, the painting of the tightrope walker, my journal. I’m excited about using my iPod. I wonder if Lana Kramer ever receives any presents on December twenty-fifth as a kind of consolation, since Hanukkah’s already over by then.

  I think for a second about Amy Sinks’s New Year’s dance, how I’m still kind of looking forward to it, even though everything has changed.

  It’s like the next few days don’t really happen. Or they’re so empty they don’t even count as days. I get through all the post-Christmas routines. I download songs onto my iPod. I play video games with Joe when he’s not with his girlfriend. I don’t leave the house unless it’s with another family member. I don’t hear from Matt.

  I’m close to convincing myself that the whole thing out on the ice never happened. It feels like some kind of dream, some kind of bad dream, most likely brought on by bad news upon bad news upon bad.

  Finally, I can see my parents starting to worry that I’m not leaving the house, so I make my way to Mabel’s. I wonder if Amy knows that Matt’s leaving, and this seems one way to find out.

  She seems happy to see me, and doesn’t seem sad at anything, so I’m guessing she doesn’t know. I don’t say much more than hi to her, then I bury myself in my book.

  I lose track of time until Amy reaches over and pours more coffee into my mug. “Wow, I never knew you were such a reader,” she says. “Or such a coffee drinker, for that matter.”

  I’m only on my third cup.

  And I’m one page away from finishing A Separate Peace.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “I drink coffee. And I read. I drink coffee and read.” I look up at her. “And that’s pretty much it, Amy.”

  “Well, don’t forget dancing,” she says, flashing a smile. “I can’t wait to see you bust a move at the party tomorrow.”

  The door to Mabel’s chimes open, and Amy saunters over to the counter to grab a menu. The customer is an old man, kind of scraggly looking, with holes in his pants. He wears a beanie hat kind of like Landon’s except it looks like it’s never been washed. His jacket looks good, though, slick so rain can slide off but thick enough to keep him warm. He reminds me of Mr. Thumb, if a little more sprightly looking. I tug at the scarf around my neck, tucked down the front of my shirt.

  The old man stomps over behind Amy as she leads him to the table across from mine. He sits down facing me. Well, this is awkward, I think, looking down at my book so fast my neck pops. I hear Amy ask, “Anything to eat, sir?”

  “Oh, no thank you, ma’am,” the old man says. “Just a coffee will be good.”

  By the time Amy returns with his mug and the coffee, I’ve finished. I flip the back cover closed and shut my eyes. God, I think.

  “A doozy, isn’t it?”

  I look up.

  The old man is staring at me. And it isn’t until then that I realize he’s the Jim Cho’s Santa Claus. He smiles, his cheeks still pink from the cold. His teeth are yellow.

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah, I hated it.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Too sad.”

  The Jim Cho’s Santa Claus nods. “I remember it that way.”

  “You read A Separate Peace?” I’m surprised. The Jim Cho’s Santa Claus doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d be interested in the story of two boys—best friends—who basically ruin each other’s lives.

  “Years and years ago.” Santa stretches his arms. “But I remember pieces. I remember that it was sad.”

  “It’s not like it’s a bad book,” I say. “It’s just … hmm …” I can’t think of a word to describe it.

  Santa shakes his head. “You’re disgusted by it!”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe that’s it.”

  “And that’s okay!” Santa assures me. “It’s good to have strong reactions to things. Especially books.” He eyes the second title in my stack. “What you got there?”

  “On the Road.”

  “Aha.” He nods, his eyes closing like he’s meditating. “Now that’s a wonderful book.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes, one of my favorites.” He opens his eyes. “Yes, sir, I did my first cross-country hitchhike after I finished that book. I quit school, told my family I loved them, and stuck out my thumb. Just a couple of weeks later I was staring all bleary-eyed at the Pacific Ocean.”

  I’m a little stunned. Who would have thought the Jim Cho’s Santa Claus was a professional hitchhiker in the off-season? “That’s—” I start. “Whoa.”

  “Ha-haaa!” Santa drags out the last half of his laugh. “What’s your name, my friend?”

  “Tretch—or, well, Richard. Richard Farm the Third.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Richard Farm the Third. You like to travel?”

  “Well.” I tip my head to the side, trying to think. Where have I ever even been outside of Warmouth, other than Farm Farm? “Yeah, I guess I like to travel.”

  Santa lifts his mug and takes a swig. “Excellent. Seems natural if you like to read. Reading’s just another form of travel, after all.”

  “Do you hitchhike alone?”

  “For the most part. But I don’t mind. My son did one with me a while back, but he’s grown now, got a wife and kids. My own wife passed about ten years ago. She and I used to go.”

  Santa looks reflective for a minute, like he’s remembering something really specific. It isn’t until I say “I’m sorry” that he snaps back.

  “Sorry? Heavens, boy, whatever for?”

  “Your, uh—” I gulp. “Your wife, I mean.”

  “Oh. Well, you know how it goes.” He’s silent again for a moment. “You might think it’s a sad story—a grieving widower who had to hit the road and hitchhike all across the country to escape his pain, but I’m telling you, Mr. Farm, that is not the case.” He leans in. “You know, all the love my wife gave me during this lifetime stayed right where she put it. Even after she was gone. It stayed right here with me, and I feel it, alive as all get-out, every
single day.”

  I think about that. In a way it seems exactly like what everyone always tells you. But somehow it feels different coming from the Jim Cho’s Santa Claus.

  “You’ll find that to live is to gather the good things, Mr. Farm,” he tells me. “If it’s love, you gather it. If it’s memory, you gather it. And then when you go, what you’ll leave behind you everywhere is …”

  He holds out his hand for me to finish the thought.

  “Uhh … more good things?” I try.

  “You got it! That’s it exactly! Right-o, my boy!” He snaps his fingers and drains the rest of his coffee.

  The little chime above the door sounds again. A man steps into Mabel’s, rubbing his hands. He doesn’t look quite as scraggly as the Jim Cho’s Santa. He’s missing the long white beard, but I figure they’re probably around the same age. He stands at the door.

  “Hey, Quaker!” the man shouts. “You ready to go?”

  “Whoops,” Santa says, standing. “I think I let the time get away from me, Mr. Farm.” He reaches into his pocket. “Hold on, let me pay this girl,” he calls out to the guy who’s just come in.

  Amy steps from behind the counter. The man stands in the doorway and yanks on a pair of gloves, mumbling something about a “big waste of money” and “not even keeping anything warm.”

  Santa looks at me. “He’s just mad because I made him buy a pair of gloves before we left town.” He tips some change onto the table from his tattered wallet and places a single dollar bill on top.

  “Well, Mr. Farm.” He reaches for my hand again, and we shake. “It was a pleasure talking to you.”

  “You, too, uh, ‘Quaker’?”

  He nods. “Yes, that’s my travel name, or trail name, if you prefer.”

  I shake his hand, and then, because I don’t know what to say next, tell him, “Well, enjoy your adventure.”

  That’s when he smiles.

  “You, too, Mr. Farm.”

  He lets go of my hand and walks to the door, his friend still fussing about the gloves. “Woulda been perfectly fine without ’em,” he’s saying. Then the door swings shut, sounding the chime again.

  Amy comes to clear the table. “Who was that?” she asks.

  “That was the Jim Cho’s Santa Claus,” I tell her.

  I open my copy of On the Road to page one. I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. Amy scoops the change into her hand and counts.

  “Well, he only tipped a nickel.”

  I look up. “I’ll tip you good, Amy. Don’t worry.”

  She smiles. “Tretch, you are the nicest guy. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I shrug.

  “Well, you are,” she says. “You really, really are.”

  She carries the money and Santa’s mug behind the counter before returning to fill my mug. I sit reading until dark.

  Neither of us mentions Matt.

  I don’t hear from Matt again until New Year’s Eve Eve. By that point, there have been three silent days between us.

  “Tretch!” Mom calls. “Phone’s for you!”

  I know it’s him. I feel weird—so naturally I act it, too.

  “Huh-lo,” I whisper-croak into the phone.

  “Wow, Tretch, that was the gloomiest ‘hello’ you could have offered. What’s up? All good?”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah,” I say, still weakly.

  “Oh, okay … Well, I’m home now, and I was calling about the dance tomorrow. Do you want to pick Lana up first or me first?”

  “Uh, I don’t really care. Does it matter to you?”

  “Weeellll, maybe you can pick Lana up first? That way, you guys can have some nice private time before I show up.”

  I don’t know how to convey to him that it really does not matter to me. I think I’ve voiced my agreement/ambivalence, but apparently I haven’t said anything.

  “Tretch? You still there?”

  The line goes quiet. I flash back to his phone call over the holidays. The spotty service. I hold my breath for a second, leaving the line silent. Maybe this is revenge. I don’t know.

  “Tretch? Hel-lo?”

  “I’m here, I’m here. Sorry, service is a little spotty inside my house.” Lie.

  “Oh, okay. So you pick up Lana first? Around nine since the party starts at nine, but we don’t want to be the first ones there, obviously.”

  “Yep, that sounds good. I’ll let Lana know.”

  “Okay, great! I am so excited. This is going to be awesome! And I can spend the night afterward?”

  “Indeed,” I respond. I say it quickly, like a robot with no sense of voice inflection patterns.

  “You okay, Tretch-o? You sound a little off, buddy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I doth protest a little too much, perhaps—“I’m fine, dude”—but of course Matt doesn’t notice.

  “Oh, okay,” he says. “Just checking.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’m just a little nervous, is all.”

  Lie.

  I’m not really nervous at all. In fact, I’m the opposite of nervous. I’m kind of numb. I kind of don’t care about any of this. I’m quiet in the car on the way to pick up Lana, and Mom asks, “You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

  I say, “No, but I don’t feel very good.”

  I pinch the scarf in between my knees. I’d put it on earlier when I was getting ready. But I snatched it off as soon as I got in the car. I think it looks dumb on me.

  Mom drums the steering wheel with her thumb. “Well, maybe a little social interaction will be nice? I can’t believe you haven’t asked Matt to come over the last couple days. Hasn’t he been home since—”

  “Mom, sometimes I just like to be quiet.”

  “Oh.” She clams up suddenly like she’s scared or something, like I’ve intimidated her. God, I feel like I’m going to cry. I feel like the king of the screwups. I didn’t mean it as in Mom, stop talking. I want to be quiet right now. I meant it as, like Mom, sometimes I don’t want to be social or have interactions. Sometimes I don’t want Matt to come over. But when I start to explain, Mom interrupts, “Oh, no, let’s be quiet by all means. Start this new year off right.”

  The rest of the car ride, she’s straight-faced, and I feel bad. We don’t say a word. We don’t even turn on the radio. When we get to Lana’s house, a brick-walled one-story with a light blue door, I hop out. “Okay, I’ll be right back,” I say, but Lana’s already opened up the blue door, closed it, and begun to advance toward the car.

  “Uh, hi,” I say.

  “ ‘Uh, hi,’ ” she mimics, smiling.

  “Lana, you remember my mom,” I say. “She was with me that day at Books—not to bring up a sore matter …”

  I’m talking about our Gatsby argument, not that she lost her job. But when Lana responds, “Oh, Tretch, it’s not a sore matter. I couldn’t care less,” I realize it wasn’t clear. She opens the back door to the car and gets in. “Hi, Mrs. Farm! Remember me?”

  “Hi, Lana,” Mom says, a big smile now. “Yes, of course I remember you. How are you?”

  “I’m doing very well, thanks.”

  When we show up at Matt’s a little after nine, I don’t get out of the front seat. A few seconds pass and Mom suggests I go knock on the door, when he appears. He’s holding a vegetable platter.

  “Tretch, were you supposed to bring a refreshment?” Mom asks, her voice all panic-charged.

  “No, it’s fine,” I say.

  “Do you want to come hop in the back with me?” Lana asks.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  The truth of the matter is, I was feeling pretty numb, but not numb enough to be oblivious to the fact that it’s a jerky thing to do, to not go sit with her in the back. She’s never spoken a direct word to Matt in her life.

  Oh, well, I figure. At least Lana’s not shy or anything.

  “What’s up, everyone?” Matt says as he sets the vegetable platter on the seat between him and Lana. Mom says, “Hi, Matt.” Lana sa
ys, “Hi.”

  I allow my head a half turn. “What’s up?” I reply, and there’s a beat afterward, during which Mom reaches for the radio dial and turns it on. “I just don’t understand these stations that play Christmas music after Christmas is over. You want to find something?” She directs the question at me.

  “Sure,” I say, pleased because now I have an excuse to spend a small portion of the ride focused on the radio and nothing else. When I settle on a station, I busy myself by stuffing Grandma’s scarf into my pocket. Matt and Lana talk politely in the backseat.

  Or, rather, Matt talks, and I guess it’s politely.

  “Your first dance, too?”

  I catch Lana’s wide-eyed face in the rearview. “Oh, uh—” she starts as Mom takes a left onto Barrow. “Yeah, I guess I’m just not much of a dancer.”

  “Well, you picked a good date, then. Didn’t she, Tretch?”

  I reply quickly. “Yep.”

  It’s the only word I share until we arrive.

  Sinks’s Young-’n-Fit is a big building with cement walls on the outside. It has no windows, just a back door with a fire escape and two big double doors on the front.

  Mom pulls the Accord into the parking lot. “Y’all want me to go in with—?”

  “Mom, no.”

  “I was just kidding, Tretch. Geez.” She brakes, and we all unbuckle. “Have fuuun!” She’s trying to be funny now. “I love you, Tretch, my little man. I hope you have so much fun …” She makes kissy noises.

  “Mom, stop.” I slide out of the passenger seat and slam the door. When she rolls down the window, I try giving her the go away look, but she either doesn’t get it or she simply ignores it. “Tretch, I’m just messing with you. You know I have to mess with you. You three have a blast. I’ll be back to pick y’all up.”

  I nod. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Love you, Tretch.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  She rolls up the window and, soon enough, the Accord is moving out of the parking lot. For a split second there, I really do wish I could just go with her, do something fun and lame instead for New Year’s Eve, like we did last year—playing Monopoly (in hopes of good fortune!) and watching the ball drop on TV.