by David Arnold
Beck is right.
32
The Homestretch
“YOU’RE LYING,” SAYS Beck.
I shake my head and smile, though it’s the first time I’ve ever found it funny. “Before they got married, her name was Kathy Sherone. I still have her old name tag from Denny’s, if you don’t believe me.”
The rain is back, though not quite as brutal as it was in Cincinnati. Through the barrage, I make out a sign along the side of 71 north:
ASHLAND/WOOSTER—58 MILES
CLEVELAND—118 MILES
“But why hyphenate?” asks Beck.
“The woman is beyond logical comprehension.”
Beck keeps his eyes on the road, shakes his head. “Kathy Sherone-Malone.”
“Sherone fucking Malone,” I whisper.
Between us, Walt has his suitcase in his lap, his head on his suitcase, his hat on his head. After leaving Sunbury Veterinary, he fell asleep almost instantaneously, though whether from the problem (five heaping plates of MSG), or the solution (four extra-strength aspirin), I’m not sure. Probably some combination of both.
I haven’t told Beck about the photograph of Walt and his mother. I can barely think of it myself.
I stare at my shoes.
A far cry from Tory Burch.
“So,” I say. “You get her digits?”
“Did I get whose whats?”
“Michelle. You get her digits?”
Beck sort of smiles, but not really. “No, Mim. I did not . . . get her digits.”
I slip on Albert’s aviators. It may be overcast, but sometimes it’s nice, feeling like someone else. “Bush-league, Van Buren. Just think of the missed opportunities.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters, unlimited dog spleens. Relationship pays for itself right there. Sexy bloodbaths, diagnostic dirty talk . . . She probably needs help tying those giant bows on her shirts.”
“I am a dynamite bow-tier.”
“Right? Plus, she’s a walking malpractice suit.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“For you, it could be. By her side at trial, the good husband—”
“Husband?”
“Boyfriend, whatever. Play your cards right, you might even get your own reality show.”
“Damn,” says Beck. “You’re right. Should’ve gotten those digits.”
“Well, it’s not too late, man. Unless . . . you didn’t give her a solid good-bye, did you? If ever there was a time for a liquid good-bye, it was with Doctor”—I toss my hair aside, as if it were three times as long—“Michelle. Clark.”
He sucks in, raises his eyebrows, nods slowly.
“Bush-league, Van Buren. Bush-league.”
I’ve never been more pleased with the outcome of a conversation, nor have I been more confident in my ability to rule the mother-effing world.
Our discussion hasn’t deterred Walt’s sleep. If anything, his snores are louder than ever.
Beck smiles down at him. “We totally just took Walt to the vet.”
“Yeaaaah, to be fair, he is kind of our pet, though.”
We laugh because we love, and for the next half hour, I discover all sorts of little nuggets about Beck: he likes the smell of books more than babies; he thinks Bill Pullman sucks, but Bill Paxton is great; he likes roasted red peppers on everything except pizza; he hates the Rolling Stones, casseroles, and lakes; he loves the Beatles, Thai food, and oceans. And he’s a great driver. In fact, his focus might rank up there with the likes of Carl L. Jackson, which is really saying something.
The conversation comes to a lull. I leaf through the Reds program, shifting my thoughts from the fantasies to the difficult realities. Walt’s photograph is burned in my mind, and while I know Beck is right (we have to help him), I have no idea how.
“She was kind of sexy,” mumbles Beck.
Every ounce of blood in my body races to my face. “Who?”
“Michelle.”
I flip a page. “Yep.”
I feel him glance at me, but don’t say anything. I flip another page.
“You don’t think so?” he says.
“Sure.” I flip another page, wait a beat. “Probably closer in age.”
Between the rain and the snores, it’s not quiet, but it suddenly feels that way. It’s heavy, uncomfortable, both of us buried under the weight of words. I toss the Reds program on the dashboard. “So. Out with it.”
“Out with . . .”
“What did Claire promise you?”
I’m not sure who is surprised more by this question, Beck or me. After quite the internal debate this afternoon, I’d decided not to ask. But somebody had to say something just now, or we were likely to suffocate.
“I knew you were out there.” Beck stares into the savage rain, slowly shaking his head. “I saw that open window, and I just knew.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re brilliant and know everything. So what did she promise you?”
“Nothing,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I made a promise to her, though.”
I don’t say a word. I don’t need to. Just like Mom taught me—tip the barrel; let the apples do the rest.
“About a year after Claire moved in, we got notice that her father had been released from prison. She was beyond happy. Started talking differently. Like, if we all went out to eat, she’d say, ‘I’ll sure miss this place.’ Or we’d go to a movie, and if it was good, she’d say, ‘I’m definitely bringing Dad to this one.’ Everything revolved around her moving back in with her dad. So a few days go by, and we don’t hear anything. Then weeks, then a month . . . nothing. Claire was living out of her suitcase at this point—wanted to be ready at a moment’s notice. Then one morning, there was a spread in the local section of the newspaper. Her dad had been stabbed to death in a drug deal.”
“Shit.”
“Claire shut herself in the upstairs bathroom. We could hear her sobbing all through the house. I kicked down the door, found her in the tub. She’d slit her wrists.”
“Shit, Beck.”
“It didn’t take, obviously. But things were different after that. She ran off. Then, like three months later, my parents split up.”
From behind the safety of my sunglasses, I stare into the rain with my good eye and try to put myself in Beck’s shoes. He’d wasted years on a regret that, when confronted, hadn’t wasted one second on him. I picture Frowny Claire, sitting alone in that apathetic townhouse—cigarette, therapy, lemonade, rinse, repeat . . . If her habit is king, it’s tyrannical.
“You ever have the feeling you lost something important, only to discover it was never there to begin with?” asks Beck.
I don’t answer; it’s not that kind of question.
“Before Claire ran away,” he continues, “while she was still in the hospital, I looked her right in the eye and promised I’d always be there for her. But I wasn’t. And now she doesn’t even remember me.”
I recognize this tone. What if . . . what if . . . what if . . . I play the What If? game all the time. But it’s rigged, is the thing. Impossible to win. Asking What If? can only lead to Maybe Things Could Have Been Different, via Was It My Fault?
On February fifteenth, Dad and I went to a movie. I remember the exact date because the theater was running a post–Valentine’s Day two-for-one special. After the movie, Dad insisted on a late-night breakfast. He knew I couldn’t say no. (Breakfast is a primary strand in the Malone gene, and like it or not, you put bacon and eggs in front of me, I’m as Malone as they come.) He suggested Friendly’s. I sighed, ever the tragic teenager, and said I preferred Denny’s.
Denny’s it was.
Our waitress was a struggling romance novelist; a chatty, happy-go-lucky gal, new to the food service industry. Dad ordered a Grand Slam (the metaphor of met
aphors) and had three refills of coffee. As Dad rarely drank coffee at night, I found this odd, but said nothing. We ate, left, and that was that.
Only later, after all the pieces fell into place, did I begin playing the What If? game. What if I hadn’t mentioned Denny’s? Was it all my fault he met Kathy? Maybe things could have been different . . .
Checkmate.
House wins.
Every. Single. Time.
Beck drives, navigating the treacherous roads of What If? while I search for the right words to a thing that has none. The wiper blades, the rain, the snoring—I’m still in this I-don’t-know-what . . . orchestra, I suppose. This cacophony of travel. And even though things are heavy right now, it occurs to me how happy I am just to be with my friends. Sure, I’d love to kiss-hug-marry-hold Beck, but for now, I’m happy just to be with him. Sometimes being with gets overlooked I think.
And there they are.
The right words.
“You showed up on her front doorstep, Beck.”
He starts crying. I turn my head and watch the wild rain with my good eye. “You showed up. And that’s really something.”
ASHLAND, OHIO
(61 Miles to Go)
33
Peach Gummies
September 4—evening
Dear Isabel,
I’ll be honest with you, Iz, there are times when I would give just about anything to be dumb. I’m not saying I’m a genius or anything, and I know it sounds weird, but sometimes I think of how wonderful it must be to be an idiot. I could sit around all day and eat cheesy snacks and get fat while watching soap operas or Japanese sporting events in the middle of the afternoon. God, that just sounds fantastic sometimes. The best part about being dumb, I would imagine, is that you just wouldn’t care. I could do all those things now, sure, but at the end of the day, I’d feel like a dog for not getting anything done.
(I suppose I’ve strayed from Reasons, haven’t I? Oh well. Sometimes you gotta go with a thing.)
I met my first Claire this morning, and as a general rule I’m officially warning you to stay away from the lot of them. Rotten, through and through. This particular Claire may not be overweight, but I’ll bet she can absolutely slay some cheese puffs.
I swear, the older I get, the more I value bad examples over good ones. It’s a good thing, too, because most people are egotistical, neurotic, self-absorbed peons, insistent on wearing near-sighted glasses in a far-sighted world. And it’s this exact sort of myopic ignorance that has led to my groundbreaking new theory. I call it Mim’s Theorem of Monkey See Monkey Don’t, and what it boils down to is this: it is my belief that there are some people whose sole purpose of existence is to show the rest of us how not to act.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Aspiring Idiot
THIS GAS STATION is the worst. Beck is pumping diesel, but from the way that hussy is staring, you’d think he was stripping right in front of her.
“I like your stick figure book.”
“What?”
Walt points to my journal. “Your stick figure book. Coooool.”
The anemic stick figure, with its ridiculous flat feet, stares up at us from my lap. The journal itself hasn’t really held up too well, though it was pretty cheap to begin with. I suppose a Moleskine would have been too much to ask.
“Walt, how you feeling?”
“I’m not all wrong anymore, Mim. I’m all right.”
I’d wondered about this, his talk of being all wrong. Suddenly, it makes all the sense in the world. If someone isn’t all right, logically, it would follow that they’re all wrong. I make a mental note to tell Beck about this killer new Walt-ism.
“You up for a Mountain Dew?”
He drops his unfinished Rubik’s Cube onto the floor and smiles at me.
“Yeah, I figured. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here, you be right back. With Mountain Dews.”
I climb out of the truck and stare scimitars at the hoochie mama pumping gas in front of us. “Beck, you want anything? I’m getting dos Mountain Dews.”
“Make it tres,” he says, replacing the gas cap.
Once inside, I can’t help but think how much I hate greasy, smelly, damp, inexplicably dirty, undeniably horrible places, which is the same thing as saying I hate gas stations. I’ve never been inside a maximum-security prison, but I imagine it’s probably just one big gas station behind bars. God, I’m sick of gas stations.
A hefty cashier spits tobacco into a cup, which makes me wonder about Albert and Ahab, which makes me miss Arlene. (A true dame from the old school, may she rest in peace.) Three Mountain Dews and a pack of peach gummies later, I’m standing at the checkout. “This,” I say, plopping down the sodas and candy, “plus whatever we owe on the blue pickup.”
“You’re supposed to prepay. I could have you arrested.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time this week.”
Hefty Cashier chuckles, punches numbers into an antique register. “That’ll be eighty-three dollars and seventy-four cents.”
“What? Okay, how much without the gummies?”
Under the heavy weight of Hefty’s eyes, I pull out the last of Kathy’s cash. “See you ’round, Guy.”
“Not if I see you first, little lady.”
I turn around and give him a professional thumbs-up with my right hand, and a decent A-OK gesture with my left, which is pretty difficult what with me doing three Dews and a bag of peach gummies, but I manage. I’m almost out the door when I pass a newspaper stand that about makes my heart stop.
Strike that.
The newspaper stand surgically removes my heart from my body, then stomps on it like it’s an empty soup can.
“You okay, hon?” asks Hefty Cashier.
I nod, but no, I’m not. I am Mary Iris Malone, and I am not okay. I am shocked.
A flyer, just next to the newspaper, just by the door, just at eye level, just right in my face . . .
I always hated that picture.
Always.
“Are you going to comb your hair, Mim?” I pull my long hair around one shoulder, then swallow a bite of waffle. “Dad. I combed it.” He stands by the toaster, waiting for his own Eggo. Long ago, we’d turned in our waffle maker for the frozen food aisle. “Really? It looks like you just rolled out of bed. Did you blow-dry it?” Mom walks in the room, wearing those ratty slippers, giant bags under both eyes. I pretend not to notice. “Mom, please explain to Dad the repercussions of me blow-drying my hair.” Mom says nothing, goes straight for the coffeepot. I look back at Dad. “They’re unfathomable, Dad. The repercussions cannot be fathomed.” At first, Dad doesn’t answer. Mom’s presence seems to have thrown him. I look from one to the other, wondering how many nights they can keep it up. Mom waits on the coffee. Dad turns, stomps out of the room. The second he leaves, his waffles pop up. “Mom,” I whisper. She looks down, opens her mouth, then whispers, “Not now, Mary.” Dad storms back into the room and tosses a green turtleneck at me. “What is this?” I ask. He pulls his waffles out of the toaster. “It’s school-picture day, Mim. You have to dress to impress.” I hold up the turtleneck, a Christmas present from last year, which I’d promptly buried in my dresser. “What does that even mean?” He takes a bite, looks to Mom for help, finds none. “You have to dress for who you want to be, Mim, not who you are.” I take a bite of Eggo, talk with my mouth full. “Well, I don’t want to be the keynote at an Amway convention. And I’m not blow-drying my fucking hair.” Mom stumbles out of the room. Dad chews his waffle, watches her leave. He turns to the cabinet and pulls out my bottle of Abilitol. “We’ve tried things your way,” he says, setting the bottle in front of me with a resounding thud. “And watch your mouth, for Chrissake.”
The memory fades.
As I stand in that hellish gas
station, staring at myself in the picture, I have the overwhelming sensation that Myself in the Picture is staring back. She’s wearing the green turtleneck. Her hair is blown dry as the Sahara. And even though the black ink is faded, the words are blinding.
MISSING
MARY MALONE, 16
LAST SEEN IN JACKSON, MS, WEARING A RED HOODIE AND JEANS
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CALL 601-555-6869
My epiglottis can currently be found somewhere in Earth’s stratosphere.
I put my hand in my pocket and squeeze my mom’s lipstick. God, this is . . . this is . . . well, it’s certainly not nothing. It’s certainly something. The somethingest something there ever was.
I storm out of the gas station and hop back in the truck.
Walt raises his eyebrows. “Hey, hey, where’s my Dew?”
“Here,” I shove the bottle into his hands and tear into the bag of peach gummies.
“You okay, Mim?” asks Beck.
(Gummy one, down.) I really hated that turtleneck.
“Mim?”
(Gummy two, down.) What has it been, like, three days? Leave it to Kathy to freak out over three days. Probably trying to prove to my dad that she cares, but seriously, a Missing Persons report?
“Mim!”
I swallow my third gummy. “Yeah?”
“Are. You. All right?”
No. I’m all wrong. “Yeah,” I lie.
Beck shakes his head, brings the diesel engine to life.
“Wait,” I whisper.
(Gummy four, down.) My memory of that morning was identical to a thousand others, right in the middle of the darkest of days. Mom, slippers, silence. Dad, waffles, denial. Rinse and repeat. And repeat. And repeat and repeat and repeat . . .