Road and Beyond: The Expanded Book-Club Edition of The Road to You

by Brant, Marilyn

  Donovan and I didn’t say anything, although we both shot a quick glance at the base of the maple tree where he’d been stashing the fireworks. I didn’t see any left. Of course, I knew there were still some in his trunk.

  “Celebrating the Fourth of July a little early, aren’t you two?” the officer asked.

  I watched Donovan swallow and nod. “A guy at the shop gave me a few of these, and I just wanted to see if they were any good.”

  Officer James raised an eyebrow. “One of your coworkers?”

  “No,” Donovan said quickly. “Just a guy who was passing through. Needed a little work done on his back bumper and an oil change. He was from out of town.”

  I studied the cop’s expression as the cop, in turn, studied Donovan’s, and I knew we were in trouble. Officer James wasn’t buying this explanation.

  “This guy from out of town, he just gave you a bunch of—” The officer waved his palm in the air. “What would you call them? Specialty fireworks?” He grinned some more and ran that same palm through his hair again, catching his fingers up in the chestnut strands like a spider dancing through a web.

  Donovan winced. “I didn’t know what they were for sure,” he lied. “They did look a little, uh, different from the usual ones we get.”

  At that, the officer laughed. He may have been a small-town cop, but he was nobody’s fool.

  He clasped Donovan’s shoulder with his wide hand and glanced between the two of us. “Well, son, I’m off duty, so you’re in luck. When I saw your car by the side of the road, I thought you might’ve just had some engine trouble. Glad to hear that’s not the case.”

  He gave each of us a significant look and let go of Donovan to examine the spot where the fireworks had been lit. Little bits of burnt black wadding remained at the scene, although, thankfully, most of the objects in question had been blown to bits.

  Donovan muttered something under his breath when Officer James picked up a slip of smoky, blackened wadding paper—a remnant from one of the cherry bombs.

  The cop’s suspicious expression said it all but, for good measure, he added, “Thought with your military background you might know better, Mr. McCafferty.”

  But then, after an interminable pause, he broke into yet another smile, raking his fingers through his thick hair once more. “I remember these from when I was a kid. They used to pack a lot more punch back then. I’m not sure who, er…designed the ones you had in your possession but, from the look and sound of them, they were made the old-fashioned way.”

  I couldn’t help but notice that, while Officer James glanced at me from time to time, he’d pretty much dismissed me from the start. There was no thought on the cop’s part of my having been involved in the acquisition of the fireworks. No sense that I might have any pyrotechnic knowledge, however minimal. Nothing out of the ordinary about me that would require him to look at me with any real scrutiny.

  It had been much the same during the missing persons investigation. Not that I had been in any way involved with Gideon’s disappearance, but shouldn’t a good cop consider every possible angle?

  Addressing Donovan, Officer James said, “You’re not within the boundaries of the town of Chameleon Lake and, even if you were, I’m not on duty again until tomorrow morning. So, I won’t be checking your pockets or your car right now, and I trust there’d be no unexploded evidence for me to find anywhere, would there?”

  “No, sir,” Donovan answered solemnly. I was reminded yet again how smoothly he could lie when motivated.

  “Good.” The cop laughed and steered us back away from the scene and toward the road. “Well, then I guess there’s nothing to report. This time. But I wouldn’t recommend that you pick up any more of those special fireworks from anywhere, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Donovan replied, his tone respectful but with a hint of his trademark charm. Playing the game. Maybe even enjoying it.

  I couldn’t quite bring myself to act playful, but I tried to appear appropriately compliant. Because as jovial as the coolest, hippest cop in Chameleon Lake seemed at the moment, I remembered Officer William James well from the time of the investigation. Knew what a hard ass he could be when he wanted to. I wasn’t inclined to get on his bad side.

  Since he seemed to like me best when I played the part of the meek, easy-to-direct schoolgirl, I just kept quiet and let him think what he wanted.

  Thing was, no offense to the good officer and his buddies at the police station but, as of two years ago, I hated all cops. Every last one of them. And I’d never trust them again.

  When we got up to the road, Officer James jumped into his snazzy yellow VW Bug with a wave, but he insisted that Donovan drive ahead of him. So, of course, Donovan pulled out first and had to drive under the speed limit the whole way back into town. It wasn’t until the cop turned left onto a side street that we could finally breathe deeply again.

  “What are we going to do with the rest of the fireworks?” I asked. “There are still some in the trunk, right?”

  Donovan shrugged as he pulled into the auto shop’s parking lot next to my Buick. “Yeah, we’ve got five or six left. We’ll take them with us, I guess. Maybe find a larger, more remote area when we’re on the way to Chicago and light them there. We’ve got to be more careful out of state. Lucky it was Officer James who saw us tonight and not someone who didn’t know us. Like some hardnosed cop from St. Cloud or another town.”

  “Yeah. Very lucky,” I murmured.

  He didn’t catch my sarcasm and, at least for the moment, he didn’t seem plagued with worrisome questions about our brothers’ possible involvement in the building of these types of fireworks. Or, maybe, he just didn’t want to tell me his thoughts. He was so irritatingly practical. So one-day-at-a-time focused.

  I could scarcely keep myself from grimacing when he said, “Okay. I’ll meet you by the movie theater on Friday night. Try not to get yourself into any trouble before then.”

  “No one ever suspects me of getting into trouble,” I shot back and had the satisfaction of seeing him squint at me for a second in consideration.

  “Well, then, I guess people are underestimating you, Aurora.” He grinned. “I’m not that dumb. Or, at least, not as dumb as you think.” He got out of his car, slammed the door behind him and walked toward the office. “Go home,” he said over his shoulder. “Talk to your parents. We’re not going anywhere unless they say it’s okay.”

  He didn’t even turn back to wave. But I didn’t need to get in the last word. I’d accomplished two out of my three missions for the week. Dale—check. Donovan—check. Only one more to go.

  ***

  Wednesday night, it was finally time for that conversation with my parents. I presented the idea to them casually, over a dinner I’d made of beef stew and Bisquick rolls.

  “So, Donovan and I got to talking this week, and we both thought it’d probably be a good idea to take a look at a few colleges. We haven’t seen many, and—”

  “I always thought you wanted to go to school up here when you were ready for it,” Mom said, instantly defensive. “In the Twin Cities. We’ve already shown you that campus.”

  And they had. With Gideon, during the fall of his senior year, in an unsuccessful attempt to convince him to apply to college.

  “Oh, I know,” I said, using my most soothing voice. “I guess, after hearing Betsy talk about it at the party over the weekend, I just wondered about some other places nearby. U of M still seems the best, but I just want to make sure, you know? I never even questioned it.”

  This happened to be one-hundred-percent true, so I was positive my delivery held the ring of sincerity, but my mother had that ever-present look of concern on her face, and I could see flashes of pain in her eyes at the memories of Gideon that such talk of university campuses always dredged up. One of the million reasons why I’d let my college plans drop away after my brother disappeared. And why my high-school graduation two weeks ago was an obligatory formality, not remotely
like a celebration.

  “How long will you be gone?” Mom asked, focusing on the time element only and not on the person I’d be traveling with. This was an encouraging oversight.

  “A week, maybe,” I said. “Hey, would anyone like more stew?” I lifted the ladle and smiled at my parents.

  My mother put her spoon down and blinked. “A week?”

  And my father, who’d been studying the chunks of vegetables and meat in his bowl with mild interest until then, finally spoke up. “I’ll take you to the other colleges. Which ones do you want to go to?”

  For a second, I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t anticipated my dad suggesting he’d take me himself.

  “Oh, no, Dad. That’d be too much time away from work for you. I want to see a couple of schools in Wisconsin, Illinois and Iowa. And I have to visit on weekdays when the admissions offices are open. It’s not a problem for Donovan to take me. He’s already going, and I—”

  “You’re not traveling around half the Midwest with a boy,” my father stated. “I should have a few days of vacation time. You and I can go in the next week or two.”

  “But that’s unnecessary,” I insisted. “Donovan is already going. He’s leaving this weekend, and he wants to see a lot of the same colleges that I do. It would be silly to waste gas and your vacation days when we don’t need to. Plus, you know him. You know his family. He’s not some dangerous stranger.”

  “Where, exactly, will you be sleeping while you’re on this trip?” Dad crossed his arms and stared at me. “At a campground? In some cheap motel? In Donovan’s car?” He shook his head as if trying to dismiss the image this thought created. “No. It’s not safe.”

  “A lot of the universities have inexpensive housing nearby. There are motels that are almost like youth hostels and small bed-and-breakfast inns that are practically on campus. I’ll make sure we’re somewhere safe. You don’t have to worry.”

  My dad pushed himself to standing. “I don’t have to worry?” He tossed his napkin on his chair and stepped away from the table. “We’ve already lost one child. We’re not losing another. The answer is no.”

  Before I could stop him, my father marched out of the room. In the distance I heard the TV being flipped on and the end of the CBS Evening News. Walter Cronkite was saying, “And that’s the way it is Wednesday, June 14, 1978,” and my dad was saying nothing at all. He was, however, making a racket picking up and crumpling old newspapers, something he did when he was agitated.

  My mom had that haunted expression on her face, staring down at what remained of her stew, as if looking into a very murky crystal ball. I could sense her pain tangling with her feelings of guilt. Not just over Gideon, but over me, too. Remembering all the things I hadn’t gotten to do because we’d lost my brother.

  “Maybe...you should go,” Mom murmured, not meeting my eye but talking to me just the same. “It would probably be good for you to see some new colleges.” She put her elbow on the table and rested her head in her palm, closing her eyes. Almost unwilling, it seemed, to let our gazes meet for fear she’d change her mind. “We’ve known Donovan for years. He’s not a wild boy,” my mom added. “He’ll be responsible, won’t he?”

  “Yes,” I answered very truthfully. “He will.” And though I didn’t say this aloud, to myself I added, That’s because he’s not a boy. He’s a man. And that makes a world of difference.

  “I can talk with your father about it later,” my mother said.

  I went over to hug her. “Thanks, Mom.”

  But, once I’d put the leftovers away and washed the dishes (Mom had gone to lay down for a while), I found my dad alone, sitting in a living room devoid of newspapers, and staring at a few family photographs on the wall. The TV was a low hum in the background, and he was clearly not watching it.

  I sat down on the sofa near him and stared at the pictures, too. There were framed photos of when Gideon and I had been babies, then preschoolers, then high-school students. Black and white snapshots—one of our mom perched on a wooden swing and one of our dad in his U.S. Marine blues from his days in the service. Pride and duty shown in his eyes. A large picture of our parents on their wedding day. And another of the four of us from Christmas 1975.

  All happier times.

  “Dad, I’m going to be eighteen in just a few weeks,” I said. “I know you’re worried about this trip, and I can understand that, but you don’t have to be. I’m not one of those hippy types. I’m not going to be taking chances. And Donovan is very careful. He’s been trained in the military. I’ll be safe with him.”

  “You’d be safer at home,” my father whispered.

  I nodded. That was true. I wouldn’t deny it.

  “Is there something going on between you and this boy?” he asked. “I know you both share a…tragedy. But is there anything else? Anything I should know about?”

  “No. It’s not like that.” Also, regrettably, true. “We just—we just have a common goal.”

  My father took a deep breath. “Well, then, we could invite him along with us. He could be our guest, and the three of us could go look at colleges together.”

  I smothered a sigh. This wasn’t working like it was supposed to. I’d known from the beginning that my mom would need some reassurance. I hadn’t realized my dad, being the good man he was, would need far more than that.

  “Dad, please listen to what I’m saying.” I waited until my father nodded and, slowly, turned his head to face me. “It’s important that Donovan and I go on this trip alone.” I met his gaze and held it.

  And my dad, who had a touch of heightened perceptiveness about him—even if it wasn’t so strong a trait as mine and even if he rarely chose to harness it—got a glint of curiosity in his eye that I hadn’t seen for years. For two years, to be exact. “Why?” he asked.

  I paused and inhaled a few times. It was critical that I explained this right.

  “There’s really only one thing Donovan and I have in common…and it isn’t college plans,” I said, taking a chance that honesty was my only hope in getting him to really loosen his grip. “Only one thing we both desperately want to know. One. And, Dad, you know what it is.”

  I watched as my father’s facial expression slid into something odd and almost indecipherable. He glanced at Gideon’s graduation photo, then over at me, then back at the wall of pictures again. Dad’s eyes focused on my brother’s easygoing smile and, under his chin, his strong fingers carefully curled—hiding the grease-stained nails in his fist while the ruby-and-gold graduation ring flashed outward to the world.

  “You know something new about them?” he whispered. “Your brother and his friend? You have a hint about why they left?”

  I didn’t want to answer this. Didn’t want to raise hope if I couldn’t be sure. But, in many ways, my father’s intuition had just moved beyond his need for me to supply the words. There was a watery glaze to his eyes and a battle on his face between belief and fear, hopefulness and despair.

  “I love you, Dad,” I said instead. “Donovan and I are going to find out for all of us whatever answers we can.”

  After that, he didn’t say anything more about it. Didn’t argue or try to talk me out of leaving. He just murmured, “Do you need money? Anything?”

  I shook my head and moved to hug him.

  He tugged me toward him and held me tight, pulling me into his arms like when I was a toddler. I could smell the scent of his pipe on his clothing. I could hear his heartbeat through his thin shirt. And I could feel his tears on the side of my cheek. They mingled with my own.

  ***

  On Friday night, as I sat next to Betsy in our town’s packed little cinema and watched cartoon animations of the cast sing, dance and proclaim that Grease was “the word,” there were two thoughts that kept running through my mind, hindering my ability to concentrate on the movie.

  One, I needed to remember to pack a few more snapshots of Gideon and Jeremy. The photo I’d taken of them to Crescent Cove was oka
y, but I knew I could find better images.

  And, two, what was Donovan doing three rows behind me…and who the hell was he sitting with?

  I’d expected to see him outside of the theater. On the sidewalk. Not inside, watching John Travolta flirt with Olivia Newton-John. And most especially not rumbling with laughter at some of the racy lyrics to “Greased Lightning” while the shrill giggles of the girl he was with distracted half the audience.

  Then again, maybe I was the only one distracted by her. Betsy didn’t seem to have a problem paying attention to the film.

  My friend elbowed me. “I don’t see why anyone would like that mean Crater Face dude. Not even Cha-Cha.” On the screen, good-guy Kenickie was getting ready to race the bad Scorpion leader for their cars’ pink slips. “He’s sort of evil looking, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  But, a few minutes later, when Kenickie got knocked out and Danny Zuko, John Travolta’s character, was doing the racing, I found myself really liking that nasty metal-and-tire-cutting attachment on the bad guy’s fast car. I fantasized about using something like that on the wheels of Donovan’s Trans Am if he couldn’t get that girl he was with to shut up.

  Second choice was to pelt a few Milk Duds at her. I peeked inside my box of candy. Still had about four or five chewy caramel-chocolate balls left.

  Thankfully, the film finally ended and, when the houselights came up, I turned to get a good look at this person Donovan had brought along. She was tall—nearly the same height as him—blondish and, from the frequency of her laughter, easily amused.

  I narrowed my eyes when I saw him put his arm around the blonde, grin and whisper something that made the other girl absolutely hoot at the hilarity of it.

  Betsy nudged me. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  I nodded my head in Donovan’s direction. “Okay, but I have to talk with him for a minute before we get out of here.”

  My friend shot me a sideways glance. “With Donovan McCafferty? Why?”