by Jeff Zentner
Somehow all this makes me even more depressed. So I’m already in a bad state by my solitary lunchtime. As the lunch hour ends, I realize I’ve allowed myself the glowing ember of hope that Jesmyn would break down and come find me and at least tell me she was glad I wasn’t going to prison.
But maybe she’s not glad. Maybe that’s the depth of her hatred for me now.
I go to my locker to grab my books for my next class. I open it and a fine plume of gray-black ash assaults my face as it’s sucked out by the door opening. I sneeze and blink it from my watering eyes.
I’m pretty sure it’s not Eli. This smells spicy and woodsy. The sort of wood that would be burned in a fireplace in a fancy home.
The Bauers have a fireplace.
The inside of my locker is covered in ash. The ingenuity to pull this off—someone must have blown it in through the door vents somehow.
I see a small, cream-colored card lying on the floor of the locker. I pick it up and ash falls from it. It’s not some crappy notecard. It has an expensive heft to it. In a clean, elegant typeface, it says: MURDERER.
I can sense Adair’s eyes, and the eyes of others, scorching my back. I’m staring into my begrimed locker like it contains the answer to a question, holding the card, and fantasizing about climbing in and shutting the door behind me. Waiting there until I can leave without seeing her.
“Dude, what happened?” someone asks. I ignore him and carefully, deliberately place the card in my shirt pocket. Over my heart. I hope she saw me do it.
With my eyes on the floor, I walk out of the building into the parking lot, jump into my car, and leave. I’ve never ditched before. You don’t go to the trouble of getting into NAA only to skip class.
There comes a point when you realize that you can never make someone like you, or even stop hating you, and the only defense you have left is the ultimate one—not giving a shit anymore. But that requires the not giving of a shit, and I’m not there yet. So I’m defenseless.
When I get home, I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror.
There is still ash in my hair.
There is still ash on my face.
“So, since we last spoke, I’ve found myself thinking about the hapless Jiminy Turdsworth and the cat restaurant he started with the proceeds of the safety device he stole from the trailer of Billy Scruggs’s truck.” Dr. Mendez has a mischievous glint in his eyes from behind his steel frames.
“Sorry about the name. I was mad,” I mumble. I’m suddenly embarrassed about my outburst in our last session.
Dr. Mendez waves it off. “It had a certain, say, scatological elegance. You don’t think my being an adult man with a psychiatry degree means I don’t find poop funny anymore?”
“No.”
“How have you been?”
“Really bad.”
Waiting.
I sigh. “I, um.” I study the floor. “Messed things up with Jesmyn. Maybe permanently.”
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not especially.”
That even, temperate gaze from Dr. Mendez.
“…But you’re going to just sit there not saying anything until I do.”
He shrugs. Probably.
“Well. We went to a concert together. She and Eli were supposed to go. Everything was fine. She played me some of her music on the way. It was amazing. She looked so beautiful. I was wearing some new clothes my sister helped me pick out. And then…I started getting jealous, I guess. Of how she loves musicians. Of Eli. Of…who knows. At the end of the night—”
I lean back and rub my mouth and look over Dr. Mendez’s shoulder. He’s so still, it draws the sound from my mouth.
I continue. “This is so embarrassing. At the end of the night, I tell her I have feelings for her, and she says she doesn’t feel the same way, and it all goes down the toilet and I tell her Eli wasn’t that great and blah blah blah. We haven’t said a word to each other in almost two weeks.”
Dr. Mendez nods and taps his lips, looking meditative. “Do you see yourself as worthy of being with Jesmyn?”
I start to say “of course,” but catch myself. “Maybe not,” I say after a few seconds’ contemplation.
Dr. Mendez leans forward. “Is it possible you introduced some chaos into the relationship, perhaps to sabotage it, because on some level you felt undeserving of being with her?”
A door opens in my mind and I walk through. “Yeah. Possible.”
Somehow this comforts me. It doesn’t fix anything. In fact, it only makes more clear that it was my fault. But still.
“It sounded like you two were very close. If I were a betting man, I’d wager on your relationship ending up on good terms again.”
“Any ideas on how I could make that happen?”
“Honesty. Humility. Listening more than you talk.”
“Okay.”
We stare at each other for a short while.
“So,” I say. “The district attorney decided yesterday not to press charges against me.”
Dr. Mendez’s face illuminates. He laughs and claps. “Fantastic! I really need to keep up on local news better. That’s wonderful!” He looks as relieved as I wish I felt.
“Yeah, it is. I mean, yeah.”
“But?”
“But I ended up agreeing to do a final goodbye day. With Mars’s dad.”
“The judge.”
“The judge who hates me.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s this Sunday. I’m really scared.”
“I bet.”
“Any ideas on how I should handle it? Please actually give me an answer just this once and I’ll never bug you for one again.”
He takes a deep breath and laces his fingers around one knee. “Be honest. Be humble. Listen more than you talk.”
“No, but it’s weird, right? How we’re totally good on last names now and we don’t need to invent any more,” Blake says.
“Like how in the old-timey days, people were named after what they did for a living. So John Smith was a blacksmith. But yeah, we don’t have ‘John Programmer’ or ‘John Pizzadeliveryguy,’ ” I say.
We crack up, our laughter echoing down the hall.
“Bill…Walmartgreeter,” Eli says.
“Amber Pornstar,” Blake says.
“Jim and Linda Garbageman,” I say.
“Doctor Manhattan!” Eli says.
“That doesn’t really—” I start to say.
But Eli’s stopped and is looking down at this short, skinny kid with an Afro, black-framed glasses, and low-top Chucks that have been drawn on with a permanent marker. He’s sitting, leaning against a locker, sketching on a large pad.
The kid looks up, surprised. “Yeah…you into Watchmen?”
“Totally, man,” Eli says. “Can I see?”
The kid shrugs. “Sure. Not done yet.” He hands the pad to Eli.
Eli studies it, awestruck. “Bro, this is amazing. If you told me you actually illustrated Watchmen, I would believe you.”
The kid breathes hot on his fingernails and buffs them on his V-neck T-shirt. “Well, of course I illustrated Watchmen.”
Eli laughs and extends his hand. “It’s an honor. Eli Bauer.”
The kid takes Eli’s hand. “Mars Edwards.”
Blake and I introduce ourselves.
“Hey, we’re going to my house right now to play some Spec Ops: Ukrainian Gambit,” Eli says. “It’s more fun with four players. Wanna come?”
Mars’s face brightens at the invitation. “Man, thanks.” His face dims again. “I wish I could. I gotta do this church thing with my dad in an hour or so, and he’s a pretty intense dude. He’d be like ‘Thurgood’—that’s my real name, by the way—‘we do not cancel commitments or change plans ever for any reason.’ ”
We laugh at Mars’s impression; we don’t even need to have met his dad.
“You eat lunch with anyone?” I ask.
“Naw, not really. Still meeting people,” Mars s
ays.
“You wanna eat lunch with us?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah, that’d be cool. I usually use lunch to practice sketching.”
“That’s fine, because we use lunch to practice being sketchy,” Blake says.
The next day Mars eats lunch with us. And from then on, Sauce Crew is complete. One day he sketches a picture of me.
I frame it and put it on my wall.
I’m looking at it now; staring myself in the eyes as I lie awake, listening to my house creak and pop; listening to my humming blood.
I wish I could talk to Jesmyn. I wonder if she ever lies awake and thinks of me. I wonder if she ever misses my lying under her piano. Another phantom limb itching.
I contemplate the day stretching ahead of me like some vast unknown land enshrouded in fog. I have no idea what will happen or how it will go.
No, scratch that. I have some idea.
November. Mars and I should be immersed in the abundance of our last year together. Instead, there’s this.
Penance.
Stories.
Goodbye days.
Not only do I want to shit myself as I pull up to the Edwardses’ immaculately restored East Nashville house in the predawn dark; I feel ridiculous. I’ve slapped together a workout getup of some old PE shorts, trail-running shoes I bought to use for hiking, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. I had to sneak out in these clothes because my parents think I’m visiting the Sewanee campus today. As if I’d tell them I’m hanging out with the guy who tried to put me in prison.
At precisely five-thirty, I walk up to the front door. The chill bites at my bare legs, but I can’t tell whether I’m shivering because I’m cold or because I’m nervous. I knock tentatively. I hear loud, determined steps.
Judge Edwards opens the door, dressed in a pair of black running shorts with “U.S.M.C.” in white lettering and a sleek, black running jacket. He makes workout gear look like a three-piece suit. He looks at his watch and glowers at me. “You’re late.”
My bowels are Jell-O. “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” I stammer. “My clock said five-thirty exactly.”
He extends his arm so I can see his watch. “Five-thirty-two.”
And we’re off to a great start. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I apologize.”
“I taught Thurgood to be scrupulously punctual. We do disservice to his memory by being otherwise.”
“Yes, sir, Mars was always—”
“Pardon me, who?”
“Mars, sir, was always—”
“I don’t know anyone named Mars other than the Roman god of war.”
“Your son, sir.”
“My son named Thurgood Marshall Edwards?”
“Yes, sir, sorry.”
“Then let’s honor his memory by calling him by his given name.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
I had wondered if any of Mars’s older brothers or sister would come. The oldest brother is a JAG in the Marine Corps. His sister is finishing her PhD at Princeton, and his other brother is premed at Howard University. I’m unsurprised to not see them coming and even less surprised not to see Mars’s mom. He always said she and his dad fought a lot.
We get into Judge Edwards’s sleek Mercedes that shines like black glass. The tan leather seats are firm and cold on the backs of my thighs. Judge Edwards wordlessly turns on both of our seat warmers and pulls out of the driveway.
We might as well be in the vacuum of space for all the talking we do. Listen more than you talk, Dr. Mendez whispers in my mind. No problem there, doc, I think.
After about ten minutes, we arrive at the Shelby Bottoms Greenway, a miles-long asphalt path along the Cumberland River where people run, bike, and walk dogs. I’ve been here a few times.
Judge Edwards parks and we get out. He goes to the trunk, retrieves a water bottle, and tosses it to me. “Drink.”
I fumble it, drop it, and pick it up. I comply, even though I’m not at all thirsty. Something in his tone tells me it would be unwise to refuse.
Judge Edwards does some quick stretches. I’ve never noticed this before because I’ve always seen him in a suit, but he looks carved from gristle. There’s a hardness to him that looks like all fluff and frivolity, inside and out, has been burned away by fire; consumed; withered by drought.
I mimic the motions of stretching. I have no clue what I’m doing.
“Let’s go,” he suddenly barks, like a drill instructor. And he’s off before I’m even standing upright.
I have to sprint my fastest just to catch up with him. Even then I’m running at almost top speed to keep pace. I’m no athlete. I’m not totally out of shape because I go for walks, but I’m completely outmatched as a runner. My heavy trail-running shoes—built to withstand rough ground—clomp on the pavement, jarring my knees. My chest heaves and pleads for air. The saline, coppery tang of blood is in my mouth and on my breath. My pulse screams in my ears. I start to fall behind.
Ahead of me, Judge Edwards turns. Even in the dark, his eyes flash ardent. “Pick up the pace. Thurgood loved excellence. He loved to test himself. He loved to achieve. He was not a quitter. Now move.”
I move. For what seems like hours. As if hounds are at my heels. Every cell in my body is sobbing, begging for oxygen. I’m soaked in sweat and the damp chills me. My knees throb. My feet ache. I start coughing and I can’t stop. I begin to fall behind again.
Judge Edwards stops and turns around, running in place, waiting for me. He’s barely winded.
I catch up to him and double over, hands on my knees, hacking up phlegm. “Your Honor, how long did you plan on running?” I wheeze. “I’m not sure if—”
“Seven miles.”
Seven miles?! I almost died when I had to run a mile for PE. And that was at my own pace, not Judge Edwards’s.
“How far have we gone, sir?”
“Approximately two miles.”
I gasp. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think I can run seven miles.”
He bends down to meet my gaze in the dim light. His face is uncomfortably close to mine and he speaks with unshrouded menace. “Do you feel like you can’t breathe? Like a rockslide has covered your chest?”
I nod.
“Does your heart ache like it’s tearing in half?”
I nod.
“Does every inch of you hurt? I mean hurt like you want to die?”
I nod.
“Do you feel like being sick all over the ground? Like you want to turn yourself inside out?”
I nod.
He draws even closer. His breath smells like hunger and mouthwash, like he just keeps brushing his teeth without ever eating anything. “Now you understand how I felt when I received the call telling me my son had been killed.” His voice quakes.
But I already know! my brain screams. Because I felt the same when I found out.
He stands back up, straight as a steel beam, while I wait for a coughing fit to pass and try to buy myself a second or two with a story about how Mars once bought a homeless guy lunch and then drew a picture for him to sell or trade for more food later if he got hungry.
“Once, Thurgood—”
“No,” Judge Edwards says, with an I’ve-got-a-better-idea inflection, raising his finger to cut me off. “Oh no. This is not the day for you to tell me who my son was. This is the day for you to understand what you took from me with your recklessness and stupidity and impatience. Now catch your breath and move.”
Every word is agonizing. Injury on top of injury. Stubbing your toe when your feet are frozen. Rubbing off a blister down to raw flesh.
I get my coughing under control, and Judge Edwards sprints away again, with me trailing behind. Each breath sears my lungs. Every protective shell I’ve formed—every bulwark I’ve thrown up—is eroding; melting away; leaving me bare. Emotions I’d tried to bury are beginning to flood out. He knew this would happen.
I’m having trouble lifting each foot off the ground. My toe catches the ti
niest crack in the pavement and I go sprawling, abrading away the skin on my knees and palms. I lie there, stunned by the sudden jolt that knocked what little wind I had out of me. My eyes well up with tears as I struggle to stand.
I hear footfalls as Judge Edwards lopes back to me. “Are you injured?” he asks, in a tone suggesting he’s mostly concerned about my being healthy enough for him to keep breaking.
I shake my head but don’t speak because of the sobs massed on the borders of my vocal cords, waiting to spill.
I stand on rickety legs. The air is cold and sharp on my newly exposed nerve endings. Suddenly, nausea overwhelms me. I make it the few steps to the edge of the path before yakking last night’s dinner onto the ground. It goes out through my nose and the whole world smells like puke.
Well, Dr. Mendez, I’m doing great on the humility front. And you can’t be more honest than puking in front of someone. And I’m sure listening more than I’m talking.
When I turn to Judge Edwards, he hands me a water bottle. “Drink,” he says. He sounds ever so slightly sympathetic. I drink, swishing the water around in my mouth.
I hand him the bottle. “Okay,” I say, hearing the fatal resignation in my own voice. “Let’s go.” Maybe I can run myself to death. In fact, looking at the dense, tangled woods on either side, it’s not entirely implausible that he brought me out here to kill me anyway. Joining Sauce Crew would improve my life right now.
“I think that will do.” He starts walking in the direction from which we came. I expect him to start running, but he doesn’t.
I limp after him, tamping down my pain and queasiness.
Dawn is breaking, a luminous rose-orange silk ribbon over the black ranks of trees, but it’s still cold and dark on the path, and between us we are as mute as the friend and son we came to honor.
“Bring the towel inside with you,” Judge Edwards says. “And your church clothes.”
I grab the towel that he made me put on his car seat, get my suit that’s hanging in my car and my dress shoes, and limp into the house after him, still wheezing.
Of all of Sauce Crew, we hung out at Mars’s house the least. Mars and Eli dug my house because they could ogle Georgia. We all liked Blake’s because of Nana Betsy. And Eli’s had the best video-game setup. Plus there was always the chance that Adair would show up with a pack of her lithe dancer friends. There was something about Mars’s house that put us on edge. It felt antiseptic, cold, brutal, efficient. Blake wouldn’t fart there. Not even if it was just the four of us. He’d wait until he got out in the car to let fly. “It’s not the kind of place you fart in,” he explained once (as opposed to in public stores and in the foyer of our school). When we did hang out at Mars’s, it was in the messy oasis of his bedroom.