“And what about girls?” Bobo said. “You got any of them left?”
“You know it.”
“Sweet.”
“Hey, I’m glad you guys are here. You’ve got something to do with this thing at Boeing Field, right?”
For a moment, Andy didn’t know what Bleeder was talking about. The Party at the End of the World—yet another grand idea that would end up coming to nothing.
“I think it’s pretty much canceled,” he said.
Bleeder looked genuinely dejected. “For real? I told my sister in California she should drive up for it. Everyone said it was gonna be a rager.”
“Don’t know what to tell you, man. That’s just how it is.”
They walked on, through cumulus bursts of pot smoke, in and out of the rings of heat put off by the lamps. Golden stood all the way at the edge of the roof. He was looking into a telescope—one of those stumpy professional ones, rather than the typical skinny kind—and had it pointed at a fire burning down by the water.
“Shit’s getting crazy out there. I swear I saw some guy jump out of a window.” He raised his head from the eyepiece. “What’s up, boys?”
“Nothing much,” Bobo said. “We were looking for a party.”
“Well, you found it.”
Andy glanced around the roof. There were maybe a hundred people there, but most of them looked way too out of it to do much in the way of partying. It was a little sad, actually. “Where’s that girlfriend of yours, Bobo? She know you’re on the prowl tonight?”
“She’s pissed at me.”
“For what?”
“You remember her brother? The guy we ran into at the Cage?”
“Of course. The big man.”
“Well, he and I got in a fight, and I won. Misery didn’t like that much.”
Golden laughed. “I bet she didn’t.”
“So I guess that means we’re done.”
“Just like that? Nah, man. You gotta tell her you were just doing what you had to do. Make her understand.”
“I tried.”
“Try harder.” Suddenly Golden jumped up onto the narrow ledge of the roof. “Come on up here with me. Both of you.”
Andy laughed nervously, “We’re, like, fifteen stories up, yo.”
Golden pointed right at Ardor. “And that fucker is, like, a week away from smashing your head open. So what are you afraid of?”
Bobo climbed up first. The ledge was only two or three feet wide, and slippery with rain. Andy’s stomach turned over as he slowly stood. It hadn’t seemed all that windy on the roof, but on the ledge, every little breeze felt like a tiny hand trying to topple him.
Golden inhaled deeply. “This is why I love that asteroid,” he said. “We spend all our lives standing up on a ledge like this, but we pretend not to notice. Everybody working away at their jobs, saving their pennies, having their kids, when all it takes is one shove . . . and down you go. I felt like I was the only one who noticed that. But not anymore. Now everybody’s up here with me.”
He turned his silver-bullet eyes on Bobo.
“You don’t wanna go out of this world with regrets. If there’s something you want to do, you do it. You take this life by the balls and you tell it that you existed. You understand what I’m saying?”
Bobo nodded. “A hundred percent, yo.”
Andy shivered, though he wasn’t sure whether it was because of the wind, or the rain, or else because of the sudden fear he had that Bobo really did understand what Golden was saying.
Golden cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across the lightless city, “I existed, goddamn it! Say it with me!”
“I existed!” Bobo said.
“I existed, goddamn it!”
“I existed, goddamn it!”
“Again!”
“I existed, goddamn it!”
“Again!”
“I existed, goddamn it!”
Then they were both saying it, over and over again, and then the call was coming from all around them, from everyone up on the roof, like a war cry. But for some reason, Andy couldn’t bring himself to join in.
Eliza
WHEN SHE FIRST WOKE UP, she didn’t know where she was. A fold-out cot with striped flannel sheets. A low ceiling stickered with glow-in-the-dark stars, all of which had been colored in black except for one—Ardor, painted with sparkly blue nail polish. A bunch of posters on the walls: the Cramps, the Misfits, the Velvet Underground. A boy’s room? No. Mirrored vanity in the corner, hung with cheap beaded necklaces and topped with a toolbox of industrial-strength makeup.
In the twin bed beneath the window, a flame-haired girl lay sleeping: Misery.
And it all came flooding back—her night with Peter in the barracks, her childhood home burned to the ground, driving in a daze of grief to Peter’s house, and then the incredibly awkward getting-to-know-yous with his parents. They’d been friendly enough, but still insisted that Eliza and their son sleep in separate bedrooms. She’d been planning to sneak into Peter’s room later on, but her exhaustion got the better of her, and a nap turned into a night. She hadn’t even changed out of her prison jumpsuit yet.
The inside of Misery’s closet looked like a Salvation Army bargain rack: T-shirts so old that you could barely figure out what they’d once advertised, hoodies with thumb holes bored into the sleeves and torn all the way back to the cuff, skinny black jeans so ripped up that they could practically pass for fishnets. Eliza paired an Iron Maiden T-shirt (World Tour ’88) with a red leather skirt and black tights. She could only hope Peter wouldn’t find it irremediably creepy to see her dressed up in his little sister’s clothes. Or maybe it would be a better sign if he did find it creepy, actually.
She padded down the carpeted staircase and into the kitchen. Peter’s mother stood at the stove, pouring a dollop of pancake batter into a small frying pan perched precariously on a butane stove.
“Hey,” Eliza said.
“Morning, darling.” Peter’s mom turned around. Her megawatt smile flickered. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were my daughter.”
“It’s fine. It’s just I don’t have any clean clothes.”
“Of course. They look nice on you. Is Samantha still asleep?”
Eliza wasn’t used to hearing Misery referred to by her real name. “Yeah.”
“You girls up late talking?”
“Sure,” Eliza said. In truth, she’d tried to make conversation with Misery, but all she ever got back were a few sullen syllables, followed by silence. Clearly, Misery was still upset over how things had ended with Bobo. It was a little hard to sympathize, given what an asshole Bobo had always been, but Eliza was trying her best to be understanding.
“Well, I’m glad you two are getting along,” Peter’s mom said. “Now, have a seat and tell me a little about yourself. What do your parents do?”
My dad dies of cancer and my mom runs off with other men. “My dad’s a graphic designer, and my mom . . . I don’t actually know these days. She used to paint a lot. And sculpt.”
“You don’t talk?”
“No. She moved to Hawaii.”
“That must be tough for her.”
“Hawaii? I hear it’s pretty nice, actually.”
“Not Hawaii, silly!” Peter’s mom appeared to be 100 percent irony-proof. “I meant not talking to you. Samantha was at that prison for less than two weeks, and it nearly killed me. I missed her so much!”
Eliza knew there was no such thing as a “normal” family. Life, not to mention Twin Peaks, had taught her that something sinister was always to be found floating like a corpse somewhere just beneath any seemingly placid surface. Still, Peter’s parents looked about as straightforward as parents could be. His dad had some kind of job that involved an office and suits and ties, and his mom stayed at home and cooked things
and generally acted mom-ish. Eliza wondered how she would have turned out if her mom had been like that. Would she be better adjusted (i.e., not hook up with random delinquents in detention center bunk beds), or just less independent?
A creaking sound from the hallway gave Eliza hope that the parental interview was over, but it was only a doubling-down.
“Good morning, girls.” Peter’s dad was basically an older version of his son—tall and broad-shouldered, with the bearing and cheeriness of a Boy Scout troop leader. He crossed the kitchen and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I woke the young’uns. They’ll be down shortly.”
“Good thing. Pancakes are on the way.”
“Yum.” Peter’s dad sat down at the table. “So, Eliza, you hear anything about old Stacy?”
“Steve!” Peter’s mom said.
“What? Is that a weird question?”
“Yes, obviously.”
“I don’t really know her,” Eliza said.
“See?” Peter’s dad said, spreading his hands out wide. “She doesn’t think it’s weird.”
“Sure she does. She’s just too nice to say it.”
Eliza smiled halfheartedly.
“Oh no. I’ve left you alone with them. Can you forgive me?”
It was Peter, thank God, still half in the throes of sleep, with pillow lines furrowing his face and a choppy ocean of cowlicks. Behind him came Misery, and for the first time, Eliza saw the resemblance between them, in this rare moment before they had the chance to sculpt their untouched morning selves into other shapes.
Peter ambled behind Eliza’s chair, kissing her on the top of the head, unknowingly mirroring his father. “Sorry about them,” he whispered. “You look lovely this morning.” Just like a boy—he hadn’t even noticed that she was wearing his sister’s clothes.
“Don’t apologize for us,” his dad said. “We’re delightful.”
“Of course you are, Dad.”
The pancakes had to be made one at a time in the tiny frying pan, so breakfast lasted for more than an hour. Misery didn’t say a word during the meal and retreated to her room as soon as it was over. Peter suggested a walk, which Eliza assumed would be of the romantic, just-for-two variety, but his parents immediately invited themselves along. Thankfully, once they’d all made it to Volunteer Park, the kids were allowed to wander free, while the parents, citing hips and knees, located a comfortable bench.
It was the first day of spring. Dozens of families were out on the wet grass, tossing Frisbees and kicking soccer balls, pretending not to notice the overcast sky and the chilly air. A young woman with a newborn sat on a thin blanket beneath the verdurous spread of an evergreen. She gently poked the baby in the belly, drawing out little coos and giggles. Eliza wished she still had her camera. Seattle in springtime was a shadowless city; the constant cloud cover diffused the light, casting everything in the same silvery, washed-out shine. The baby glowed like an idol, reaching up toward the branches of the tree swaying overhead. It was the unofficial mascot of the Pacific Northwest, the evergreen—famous for staying the same no matter the season, eternal as a vampire. A metaphorically dishonest tree to grow up with. The sort of tree that made promises it couldn’t keep.
“It’s all so sad,” Eliza said.
“What is?”
“The way everyone’s acting like everything’s okay.”
Peter put his arm around her waist and pulled her tight to his side. Eliza had already noticed that he did this whenever he was about to disagree with her; it was yet another manifestation of his just-shy-of-ridiculous tenderness. “What do you expect them to do? Sit around crying all day?”
“No. I don’t know. You really think it’s healthy to live in denial?”
“Everybody out here is gonna die eventually, whatever happens a couple weeks from now.”
“I know. But it could have been a couple decades instead of a couple weeks.”
“So they should just stop living? Does your dad sit around being depressed all day, just because he has cancer?”
The mention of her dad pierced some thin-skinned balloon of pain inside her. “Some days he does.”
A tennis ball rolled close to their feet, followed by a shaggy blond mop of golden retriever. The dog stopped in front of them and waited expectantly, windshield-wipering its tail.
“You wanna be like this thing?” Eliza asked.
“Are you kidding?” Peter picked up the ball and tossed it as far as he could. They watched the dog dash after it. “Right now, that dog is only thinking about one thing. I’d kill to be like that.”
“You can’t ever focus on one thing?”
“Sometimes. But it requires very specific circumstances.” Peter let his hand drop down to her hip. “For example, we’d have to disturb a lot of these families to get me there right now.”
“I’m in if you are.”
He kissed her. “So I had a thought. If this Ardor thing doesn’t happen, maybe we could go to Hawaii, to celebrate.” He paused, waiting for a response, but Eliza didn’t know what to say. “I mean, you’ve met my parents now. And I know how you wished you’d gotten to talk to your mom before the phones went out. This way I’d be there too. Stop me if this is a totally dumb idea.”
“No,” Eliza finally said. “It’s not dumb at all.”
She realized she was smiling so broadly and sincerely that it embarrassed her. But she couldn’t make the smile go away. She was just glad no one could see inside her, because her heart suddenly felt so heavy, only heavy in a good way, like your stomach felt right after a big home-cooked meal. And then she noticed the knowing expression on Peter’s face, and it seemed like maybe he was seeing inside her after all. She pushed his head away, so that he couldn’t look at her.
“I’m glad you’re not a dog,” she said.
A week passed like that—walking and talking and touching. And it was good. Better than good. Better than great.
But it couldn’t last forever.
In the middle of the night, in the middle of a dream—a cobalt-colored bird fluttering at the window, wings tapping against the glass—Eliza woke to the sound of quiet knocking, followed by the double whine of a door opening and closing.
She slipped out from under Peter’s arm (spending the night together meant waiting until sister, mother, and father were all safely asleep, but it was more than worth it) and padded downstairs. Through the peephole of the front door, she watched a pair of silhouettes disappear behind the high row of pyramidalis around the front lawn. Eliza spun the knob, silent as a safecracker. As soon as she was outside, she could hear their voices. Misery and Bobo.
“But I miss you,” Bobo said.
“I don’t care.”
“I know that’s not true. Come with me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I need you to.”
Eliza crept closer, unsure what her role might be in this scene, but glad she was there to watch over Misery.
“I needed you not to try and kill my brother.”
“Your brother hit me first, Miz, and he was dragging you out of there by, like, your hair. I thought I was protecting you.”
“Well, you weren’t.”
“Miz, I’m serious here. I miss you like crazy. Just come get a drink with me or something. Talk to me. If you’re not my girlfriend anymore, I’ll deal with it. But you can’t totally disappear. Not when everything’s almost over.”
A pause. “Just a cup of coffee,” Misery said.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Just in the last day or so, Misery had finally begun to confide in Eliza. Afloat in the secret-prone darkness of her bedroom, she’d admitted that she knew she could never love Bobo again, not after seeing his face when he shot Peter with the Taser.
“He looked ecstatic,” Misery had said. “Honestly, it scared me.”
But now she was giving in—if not to love, then to pity. She had to be stopped, for her own sake. Eliza stood up, but her foot caught on a root, and she fell face-first into the hedge. By the time she extricated herself, an engine was already roaring to life. Eliza made it out to the sidewalk in time to see the car glide away down the tightrope of pavement lit by its headlights. She recognized Andy’s station wagon.
Maybe it would all be okay. Maybe Bobo really did just want to talk.
But Misery wasn’t back the next morning. Peter offered to check her usual haunts, but his parents begged him not to go. Misery was known to disappear without warning, even at the best of times, and they didn’t want to lose him, too. They spent the entire next day perched nervously on the couches in the living room, drinking herbal tea and making small talk. But as the sun began to set without any word, Eliza knew she had to come clean.
She worried that Peter would be mad at her for not saying something sooner, but apparently love gave you a free pass on stuff like that.
“You’re sure it was Andy’s car?”
“Definitely.”
Five minutes later they were on the road, heading for the ma-in-law. Peter was tense and taciturn, so Eliza just looked out the window—at the dead streetlights and the star-spattered sky. You could see so many of them up there, now that the power was out. Stars in thick clusters that twisted like ribbons. Constellations you could shape like clouds in your imagination. So many millions and billions of stars. Of course you couldn’t dodge all of them forever. It would be like running out in the rain and hoping not to get wet.
There weren’t any lights on inside the ma-in-law, or any cars in the driveway. They got out and knocked on the door anyway.
“No one’s here,” Eliza said.
“Maybe they’re at Bobo’s place.”
“No way. Bobo basically lives in a trailer, and his parents are drunks. Nobody ever goes there.”
Peter kicked the door in frustration.
“I know where they are,” someone said.
Eliza turned around. Peter had already put his body between her and whoever it was that had spoken.
We All Looked Up Page 24