I pulled out the phone book and looked up Stephanie Knox. I sat on my white leather beanbag chair and dialed her number.
“Is Stephanie there?” I asked when her mom answered. She put down the phone to find her. I waited.
“Hello?”
“Stephanie?”
“Yes.”
“This is Monica Peterson. I just called to thank you for screwing my boyfriend.”
There was silence on the other end.
“I’m sorry, Monica. But he, you know, he came after me. I wasn’t looking for it.”
“That makes me feel SO much better. I hope this happens to YOU someday so you’ll know how I feel,” I said.
“Oh, it’s happened to me. Twice,” she said. This threw me. Stephanie was a sad case.
“Didn’t you learn from that? What the hell’s wrong with you?” I said.
“Adam’s really, really cute,” she said.
“NO SHIT! That’s why he’s MY boyfriend.” I was fighting tears now.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Do me one favor, since you already fucked me over. Don’t tell Adam I know. I’m going to tell him myself this weekend. And then he’s all yours.”
“Can I take him to the senior prom?”
“What?”
“Would you care if I took him to the prom?” she repeated.
“Oh my god, this is a nightmare.” I hung up.
I didn’t call the other girls on the list.
Tuesday night, Adam called.
“Hi, sweetie, have you calmed down?” he asked.
I bit my tongue and said, “A little.”
“Can we have a date and I’ll make it up to you,” he teased.
“Friday night,” I said. “Pick me up around six.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“I don’t even care,” I said.
“I love you.” I didn’t say anything. “I can’t wait to see you,” he added.
“Okay, see you Friday.” I hung up and burst into sobs again. I put on Barbra Streisand’s album Guilty and put the needle on “What Kind of Fool.” Adam had sounded like he always did. I loved him and wanted to have sex with him at least fifty more times. But that wasn’t going to happen.
I told him to come to my house because I wanted him to make the long drive to Elk Grove so I could break up with him and send him back to Westerville. The phone was too easy.
The following Friday, Mom and Jim drove to Columbus for dinner. When Adam pulled into the driveway, I put on my gray wool coat and walked outside. He stepped out of his car and leaned down to kiss me. I pulled my head back.
“Are you fucking crazy?” I said.
“What?”
“I know about those other girls. I spoke to Stephanie Knox. Get back in your car, and get the hell out of my driveway. We are over.”
He stood there for a moment, and then punched me in the face. I felt a blinding pain below my eye. Before I could react, he grabbed my left arm and pulled me toward his car. I fought to get away, thrashing and grabbing his hair, but he was stronger. He pushed me into the passenger seat. I was screaming, but he hit me in the face again and told me to “shut the fuck up.” I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“You’re driving,” he said as he shoved me over and took his place in the passenger seat. He grabbed a rifle from the backseat and propped it on his lap, aiming it straight at me. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a box of Winchester rifle cartridges. Then he opened the box, shook a few shells out into his hand, and dumped them into the pockets of his jeans.
“Head to Cloverdale, and I’ll tell you where to turn,” he snapped.
My hands were shaking and I was trying to figure out if anyone could see what was happening. Would one of the Whitmores call the police? God knows they’d never missed me smoking a joint in the driveway. Mom always got a call when that happened, but today, perhaps for the first time in the eleven years since we’d moved next to them, they were minding their own business.
Adam forced me to drive to an abandoned train trestle and told me to get out of the car. I didn’t budge. It was snowing by then and I sat there glued to the seat with fright. I would rather have been shot in a car than out in the frozen woods, where it would take forever for someone to find me.
I thought of a recurring dream I’d had as a child: a man kidnapping me and killing me at a train trestle. Maybe it had been foreshadowing.
Adam grabbed the keys out of the ignition, got out of the car, and disappeared into the thick woods that surrounded us. I was positive he was either going to blow his own head off or shoot me through the windshield.
I sat in the car trying to make a plan for myself to get out of there. I thought about running, but what if it pissed him off more? He’d definitely shoot me. Plus, we were so far out in the country that there was no place to run, especially as cold as it was.
It was getting dark and I didn’t have my watch. Then I heard a shot in the woods. I took a quick intake of air. The hollow sound of the gun ricocheted off all those trees. He’d done it. He’d shot himself. I didn’t know what to do.
I strained to hear something, anything, but the snow was keeping everything still and quiet. If he were alive, I’d hear him moving around, unless he’d run off and left me there.
If he’d shot himself, I’d have to find his body and get the keys to the car to go get help. And if he hadn’t shot himself, maybe he was trying to get me out of the car so he could shoot me. I had never been so petrified in my life.
I rubbed my hands together. I didn’t have my gloves and I was freezing; I couldn’t feel the tips of my fingers.
Suddenly, I felt the car bouncing. Adam had jumped onto the back bumper and was jumping up and down. He was fucking with me, and I was fucking furious. I kicked open my door and lunged toward him.
“Give me the keys,” I said.
He held them above my head, with the rifle waving around in his other hand. He was smiling.
“Shoot me or give me the fucking keys!” I yelled. He threw them into the snow.
While I was down on my hands and knees looking for them, he randomly fired shots into the woods. I grabbed the keys and made it to the driver’s door, but I wasn’t quick enough to lock it before Adam was inside as well. He smiled. I was thinking of ways to save myself.
“We’re both tired,” I told him. “We need to think things over.” I put the key in the ignition and Adam didn’t object. I flipped the key and turned on the car. I was so cold by then, I couldn’t bend my fingers. Adam held the rifle between his legs, pointing up.
“You’re not breaking up with me,” he told me.
“I was just angry about that girl. You know I love you,” I said. I was getting out of this mess no matter what.
“You’re just saying that,” he said, his hair wet from the snow. I didn’t know if he was selfish, crazy, or both. I didn’t care.
“Have I ever left you?” I asked.
“No,” he said, smiling, looking down.
“Exactly.” I touched his arm. “I’m backing the car out of here. I’m starving. Let’s go to the house and I’ll make us something to eat.”
He nodded. “I knew you’d come around,” he said, pulling a cigarette out of the glove compartment and flicking his lighter. “I knew you would.”
“Put the gun in the backseat,” I said.
“No.” He blew smoke out.
“I’m not going to forgive you and make up unless that gun’s in the backseat,” I told him, backing onto the road.
“What, this?” he said, pointing it directly at me. I threw the car into drive and shoved my foot against the gas pedal. He was still holding the gun. I watched the telephone poles zipping by and wondered how I could crash the car in such a way that Adam would take the hit. I was starting to believe I’d never make it home, when he finally tossed the gun into the backseat. I didn’t even look at him.
“It’s in the backseat,�
�� he said, scooting closer to me. He leaned over for a kiss. I wanted to bite him. I gave him a peck and drove to my house as fast as I could. I pulled into my driveway and saw the lights were on. By some miracle, Mom and Jim were home.
When Adam saw this, he told me to pull back out, but I was already out of the car and running up to the side door. Adam must have shoved over into the driver’s seat, because his car squealed out of the driveway and sped away.
I ran into the house.
“Mom? Jim?” I screamed. They both came running from the kitchen.
I was sobbing. Jim put his arm around me.
“What happened?”
“I broke up with Adam and he took me to a train trestle and held a gun on me.” I could barely get the words out. “He punched me in the face.”
“I’ll call the police,” Jim said, heading toward the phone.
“The gun’s in the backseat of his car,” I told him.
“Maybe we shouldn’t call the police,” Mom said. I looked at her in disbelief. “Do you want the whole town to know?”
“What if he comes after me again?”
“She’s right. We need to call the police,” Jim insisted.
“I doubt he’ll try this again,” Mom said.
“But he knows I’m alone in the house a lot. He knows my schedule,” I said.
No one said anything.
I went into the bathroom to see if my eye was black from the punch I’d taken. It was red and puffy from crying and it was sore—but it wasn’t black. As usual, there were no obvious signs. And it would be a secret that my boyfriend had punched me in the face and terrorized me with a rifle for two and a half hours—because it was more important that Mom keep up appearances than keep her children safe.
The next morning I threw my birth control pills into the trash. If sex meant possible death, I didn’t need it, but I did need to get out of Mason County. If Adam was still gunning for me, I wasn’t going to be sitting there, waiting.
I packed Mom’s cloth flowered suitcase and drove to JoAnn’s apartment in Columbus. During the two hours it took to get there, I continuously checked my rearview mirror. I was positive Adam was following me.
I imagined him jumping out at the next rest stop and shooting me in the face. When I did stop to pee, I ran in, peed standing up, didn’t wash my hands, didn’t check myself in the mirror, didn’t buy a Coke, unlocked my car as quickly as possible, jumped in, locked the doors, and sped away. If he were following me, he’d have to be quick.
Even though Becky lived near JoAnn, I didn’t tell her I was coming down. She’d met Mitch, her new narcissistic boyfriend, and they lived in a posh gated community outside Columbus on Griggs Reservoir. She was now in her own love bubble. I wouldn’t have chosen her to lean on anyway. It would have been the equivalent of leaning on an electric fence. We tried to be nice to each other at holidays and birthdays, but it was strained.
JoAnn was welcoming and beyond furious about Adam.
“I could kill that bastard. He better NEVER come near you again. I’m serious. I’ll kill that son of a bitch.” JoAnn usually didn’t curse. I hugged her.
I was exhausted. I lay down, closed the door to her bedroom, and fell into a deep, safe sleep with my sister right outside.
When I woke, I rummaged through my suitcase, searching for a pair of warm socks, but there weren’t any. I stuck my head out the door.
“Can I borrow a pair of socks?” I asked.
At home I’d begun raiding Jim’s sock drawer. He had white Goldtoes that were extra large and cozy. The socks were warm, but mostly I liked that they were Jim’s. He was starting to grow on me.
“Top drawer,” JoAnn said.
I closed the door and padded over to the dresser. When I opened the drawer, I saw there was a book, Bisexuality in the Arts, lying just below her dress socks. I glanced at the inside flap. “Essays on being gay or bisexual in a creative community.” I was startled. I quickly stuck it back under her socks, put on a pair of white tube socks with two green rings around the tops of them, and walked into the kitchen, where JoAnn was making a plate of hummus and pita for us. Her roommate, Stacy, was at work.
I sat on the wooden bar stool at the counter and studied JoAnn with her straight brown hair and no makeup. She was wearing Birkenstocks, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and baggy blue hospital scrubs as pants. Maybe she was gay.
“Your eye looks black,” she said.
“Really?” I walked into the bathroom to take a look. It was black, all right.
“Do you want some ice?” she yelled.
“Actually, it’s not sore, but thanks,” I said, poking it with my finger. It was sore.
I stared at the bluish purple half-moon under my eye and the small dot of bright red blood on the white part. There was finally physical evidence that something violent and wrong had occurred. I didn’t put ice on it.
That weekend JoAnn laughed and sang along to Judy Collins on the stereo. She and I picked up her roommate from work and went out for pasta at Noble Romans. JoAnn hung on Stacy’s every word, leaning forward to “brush” Stacy’s black curly hair off her forehead as she talked. I twirled my spaghetti onto my fork and paid attention. Something was going on.
I drove back to Elk Grove without asking JoAnn about the book.
A couple of months later I heard Stacy was moving back to Cleveland. I called JoAnn.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Not bad.” I heard her dragging on a cigarette.
“You don’t sound great,” I told her.
“Yeah, well, that’s the way it’s been lately,” she said.
“Did Stacy move out?” I asked.
“She’s pregnant. She’s getting married,” JoAnn told me, her voice cracking. There was a long pause. “I get to be a bridesmaid.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Why?” JoAnn asked. I was thrown by this. If she didn’t want to tell me, I wasn’t going to “out” her.
“You sound sad,” I said.
“I’m tired. I gotta go.” JoAnn hung up.
Two months later I saw pictures of JoAnn wearing a lacy peach bridesmaid dress and a forced smile, walking down the aisle toward a pregnant Stacy, who was marrying her high school boyfriend.
For the next four months JoAnn slumped into a bad depression. Becky saw her in Columbus and told Mom that she was sleeping a lot, not eating, and barely making it to classes.
I called JoAnn.
“Listen, I just want you to know I don’t care if you’re gay,” I blurted out. She laughed. I waited for a reply.
“When I get up off the floor, I’ll be able to actually say something,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re gay. It only matters that you’re happy. You have to pull yourself out of this depression,” I told her.
“I’d like to,” she said.
“I’m coming down this weekend and we’ll see what we can do,” I told her. My hands were shaky as I hung up the phone. I thought about Bill Lawrence and their prom picture. I thought about Keith Phillips and our prom picture.
Things were never the way they seemed, and it was happening more and more.
What would being gay mean for JoAnn’s life? What would people say and how would they treat her? Whatever it brought, I’d be there to help. JoAnn had become the sister I’d always wanted, and I wanted more than anything to be a good sister too.
On Saturday, I drove to Columbus. JoAnn had her shoulder-length hair cut to less than two inches all over. Her head looked like a baby chick’s.
“You’re not just coming out of the closet. You’re standing on the porch waving a flag,” I told her.
“To hell with it,” she said. “I’m tired of being someone I’m not.”
“Fucking right,” I said. “You’ve hidden it long enough.” But inside I wasn’t sure. The idea of someone being gay didn’t bother me; it was just that I wanted JoAnn and me to be alike. Now, standing next to her with my long permed hair and painted fi
ngernails, I knew just how different we were. I hoped that wouldn’t keep us from being close as she began a new life.
When I got home, it was senior week.
Julie and I went to a party at our friend Dawn’s house. Her mother and about one hundred and fifty high school kids were there. A makeshift bar was set up on a picnic table in the backyard, and it seemed like the same joint was being passed from eight till midnight without a time-out. We smoked, drank, danced, and saw Dawn’s mom making out with our class president, Richard Hastings.
I graduated on an eighty-degree afternoon in May, and Dad was there, waiting for me outside the gym. He gave me a card with two hundred-dollar bills inside. I hugged and thanked him. I wanted to invite him out to the house, but Mom would have killed me.
Mom and Jim gave me a huge party. They invited my friends, teachers, neighbors—everyone I’d ever known came. There was ham, potato salad, deviled eggs, green beans, rolls, sodas, iced tea, and a huge cake that said CONGRATULATIONS MONICA on top. Mom surrounded the cake with all the trophies I’d won throughout high school, at the White Creek Players, and on the speech team. It was the best party I’d ever had.
Ironically, I was sad about leaving home, mostly because I was terrified of the future. I never trusted that things would get better. I believed in treading water, staying in the lousy, lonely, crappy place where everything was familiar. Change scared me more than a thousand Adams or Dads or empty houses.
Later that month I stopped by Dad’s store to see how he was doing. I was heading up to Columbus to see JoAnn and his store was on the way.
I didn’t think twice about stopping in at Dad’s nowadays. If I had a few minutes to kill, instead of driving the eight miles to Galesburg I’d stop in at Dad’s and use the bathroom or make a call. Sometimes he and I would lean against the counter watching the cars drive by or stand in his front window checking out the western sky for any approaching weather. We hardly ever talked; we just hung out. If he heard a siren, he ran out the door without so much as a good-bye. I understood.
The other kids didn’t see much of Dad. Becky didn’t see him at all.
The year before, when Jamie, JoAnn, and I were already waiting in the car to go down to Dad’s for Christmas dinner, Becky walked out to the driveway and announced, “I’m not going down there ever again.” And she didn’t. She hadn’t seen him since.
Driving With Dead People Page 17