He smiled at me, reassured in some way, and I smiled back at him.
16
Dad took to the idea of my driving lessons with an enthusiasm I could not match. By the end of the week, I was tense with him, and shy, feeling bound to disappoint. It did not help that Brian invited himself along for my first lesson, or that Dad insisted I invite Vin.
"Jeff, I have a surprise for you," Dad said as the four of us left Wayne early Saturday morning.
"What?" I said, trying to smile, apprehensive at the excitement I heard in his voice.
"Well," Dad was grinning at me. "How would you like a new car?"
I was silent, trying to absorb his words. Vin reacted for me, leaning forward, pounding the seat.
"A new car! Wow. What kind, Mr. Hart?"
Dad glanced at me again, then back at Vin. "I know someone who knows someone with a great deal on a white Mustang convertible, only a year old."
Vin leaned back. In the mirrored visor I could see him smiling, shaking his head. "That's great, Mr. Hart. A white Mustang."
"Jeff?" Dad said, looking at me again, holding on to his grin. "What do you think?"
"You bought me a car?" I said slowly.
"No, no," Dad said, a little edgy now. "I haven't bought anything. It's an idea. Connie thought I should run it by you first."
"I don't want a car," I said tightly, folding my arms across my chest. Everyone was silent. "I mean"— I ventured a glance at him—"thanks, and everything, but..."
Dad's face was grim as he watched the road.
"I don't even know how to drive," I said, trying to laugh, to win him back.
"You're going to learn," Dad said, eager again. "It won't take long, and then you'll have this great car for school."
"We live less than a mile from Wayne High, though," I couldn't stop myself from pointing out.
"You'll use it for college then. Come on, kid, get excited."
"I am, Dad. I am. Only ... maybe we could wait on the car? Just for a while?"
"Tell you what, Jeff, I'll tell the guy we're interested. He's not in a big hurry to sell it, and if I put a deposit down ..."
"Okay, Dad." I smiled at him. "Great. Whenever. No hurry."
He frowned, and I cursed myself for saying the wrong thing again.
Vin was watching me from the backseat. I knew what he was thinking.
Your dad wants to give you a new car, and you don't even want it! What's wrong with you!
"Okay, guys, here's the plan," Dad said, clearing his throat. "We'll hit Redbird College first, let Jeff get some driving in, then play some basketball out there. After that we'll pick a spot for lunch. How does that sound?"
After an awkward silence, Vin said, "Sounds great, Mr. Hart."
Redbird College was just three miles outside Wayne. Whoever had designed the college had preserved the beauty and rural atmosphere of the area: the classroom buildings were constructed from redwood, and they blended into the surrounding woods almost as if they belonged there. The layout of the campus followed the hilly site where it had been built, and consequently any trip to the college involved some major climbing.
There were actually three parking lots, built on graduated levels. Dad parked at the very end of the highest lot, lifting his hands from the wheel with a flourish.
"It's all yours," he said. There was an awkward moment when he didn't move and I wondered if I was supposed to slide under him. But then Dad remembered, opening the door quickly and stepping out of the Jeep.
"Wait for me," he ordered, and shut the door to walk around. Sighing, I slid over.
"Jeff, something going on?" Vin asked in a low voice.
I shook my head, forcing a smile back at him over my shoulder. "Nah."
Dad opened the passenger-side door and climbed in. "All right, Jeff. Start 'er up!"
"Okay." I knew he was angry about the car. I could hear it in his voice, beneath the forced cheer. Grimacing, I turned the Jeep's key too far, grinding the gears. Dad winced, visibly collecting himself. "Sorry," I said quickly, but he waved off the apology, nodding for me to try again.
Driving was a disaster. Though the Jeep was an automatic, I couldn't seem to remember which gear to leave it in, or how to stop the vehicle without throwing everyone forward, or how to maneuver around parked cars without giving Dad fits. In the backseat, Vin and Brian took on the status of Olympic judges, and their silence at my incompetence was more telling than insults would have been.
To compensate for the near misses I'd been having, I slowed way down, driving about ten miles an hour. Finally, I felt some control over what I was doing. Concentrating on what was right in front of me, I drove slow and straight through the top parking lot, making an exaggeratedly wide turn to accommodate the short jog down to the second lot.
The second level parking lot was much narrower than the first, and I slowed down even more. I heard a small sigh of boredom escape Brian's lips, but I ignored it, putting through the lot about five miles an hour.
"Jeff," Dad said finally, breaking the silence. "You know, you can go a little faster. It's okay—it's safe."
The word hit me like a fist. "Safe?" I looked over at him, and the car followed my eyes.
"Jeff's gonna hit that guy!" Brian yelled, and I jumped on the brakes, looking up to see a thin, bearded man on a bicycle glaring back at me over his shoulder as he pedaled off.
All was quiet in the Jeep. Then Dad sighed. "Look, I know you have good intentions, but just . . . speed it up a little, all right?"
"I almost killed that guy!" I shot back, my heart still in my throat. My voice broke a little and I looked down.
God, I'm an idiot.
"You weren't anywhere near him," Vin said mildly. I glanced up to the mirror again. "You were at least six feet away. He probably just heard Brian yelling." I tightened my fingers around the steering wheel, then relaxed them, nodding once at Vin.
Thanks.
"So," Dad said heartily, "let's try it again, hey?"
I shook my head. "I don't want to do this anymore."
"Now, Jeff," Dad said, cajoling, "once more around. Let's just get back to where we started." Disgusted with his tone of voice, I started to answer him back.
Hey, I'm not five, okay?
But I answered myself back—
Then don't act like you are. Not in front of Vin.
I sat up, taking a deep breath, and took my foot off the brake. I made it through the second lot without further event, then down to the third and final level. Holding the steering wheel in a death grip, I motored back up to the highest lot, maintaining a speed of about five miles an hour the whole time. We had no more near misses, but Dad never stopped watching me. I pulled into our original parking spot, shut the motor off smoothly and handed the keys to him. Dad hesitated before he spoke.
"Well," he said finally. "Yes. That's enough for now. That was a good effort. Next time we'll—"
"I don't want to do this anymore," I said loudly. "I don't want to drive, I don't want a car, I don't want. .. this." I stepped out of the Jeep without waiting for his response. Looking around, I wanted to run away from him, from all of them. But where was I supposed to go? I remembered—
—driving with Ray. Out in the desert, just after dawn. It is cold, my arms and legs covered with goose-flesh even as I savor the rare comfort of the car's plush upholstery against them. Ray takes the deserted highway at eighty, eighty-five, ninety . . . and I stop looking.
He reaches out, grabbing my upper thigh high under my shorts. I tense, drawing in my breath, and Ray lifts his other hand from the wheel. He steers with his knees, laughing as we weave across both lanes of the highway and back again. We are going to crash, and, amazed, I realize I still care. I smile at Ray, relaxing into his touch—
For one terrifying moment nothing changes. Then he smiles at me and slowly, deliberately, places both hands back on the steering wheel.
"Jeff!" Dad stood in front of me, staring into my eyes. I shied away from him, bum
ping into the Jeep.
"Hey, come back!" he said, laughing awkwardly. I looked around slowly. Brian stood close by, watching me, while Vin hung back a little, trying to allow me some privacy, I felt.
"Yeah, what is it?" I barked at Dad sharply, then retreated. "Sorry. I was daydreaming, I guess."
He nodded, stepping back to give me room. Without meaning to, I sighed heavily, shaking out my arms and hands. I felt tight all over, a band of tension across my shoulders.
"I was just saying"—Dad peered at me again—"that we might as well leave the Jeep here and walk down to the courts. It's a ways down, but the walk will do us good."
The walk will do you good.
I glared at him, not understanding why I was so furious but feeling it nonetheless. "Yeah, the walk'll do us good," I repeated, horrified when I realized I was imitating him.
Dad tilted his head toward me, frowning, and I prepared myself for a real confrontation with him. With a sick feeling I understood that was what I wanted. But then I watched as the fight drained out of him, his shoulders slumping. He turned away and began walking toward the stairs that led down to the second parking level. Brian trotted after him, glancing back at me. Vin looked at me, wordless.
"I don't want to fucking be here," I said to myself, startled when Vin nodded.
"Yeah ..." Vin shuffled a little, not knowing what to say. He looked after Dad, who was disappearing down the stairs without a backward glance.
Pretend you're human. Go.
"Come on," I said roughly, then cleared my throat. Vin turned back, raising his eyebrows. "We better follow them."
"Yeah." Vin looked relieved. We walked together through the parking lot. Grateful for his silence, I noticed I was matching him stride for stride, keeping up much more easily than I had the day we'd played basketball together almost three weeks ago. I was safe and I was home and I was getting stronger. So why did I still feel mired in shit?
I wasn't much more successful at basketball than I had been at driving. One bump from Dad was enough; I didn't want to play anymore. I stood back, hovering around the edges of the court, pacing, waving off Vin's and Brian's attempts to throw me the ball. Finally, I took myself out of the game, and Dad didn't question me. I sat back against the redwood and hurricane fence that surrounded the court, knees up, head down. Vin came over and sat next to me after a while, watching Brian and Dad as they played game after game of Horse and Poison. I ignored him, simmering, wanting to be left alone but furious that Dad wasn't pushing to see what was wrong with me.
You know what's wrong with you. So does he. The only way to get through it is to pretend that nothing ever happened. But it did. It did.
Dad finally called it a day, heaving with sweat, avoiding my eyes as he declared game, set, match to Brian. Delighted with the extra attention, Brian scampered off after Dad, chattering to him about their games.
I trudged along, Vin keeping pace with me. He still hadn't said anything and I realized how much I appreciated his silent companionship.
"Listen, this day ..." I looked at him finally, grimacing as we climbed the endless stairs that led to the upper parking lot. "I'm sorry we dragged you along. I mean ..." I gestured my disgust at myself, at Dad, at everything.
Vin shook his head. "Hey. You should see me when I'm fighting with my mom. It's okay." He stopped on the second-level landing, leaning back against the guard-rail, stretching his arms out. "Let's rest for a minute." Suspicious he had only stopped on my behalf, I was grateful anyway, my lungs aching from the unaccustomed climbing.
"I'm not fighting with him," I said, then stopped myself. What was I doing then, if I was not fighting with Dad? Vin was watching me, so I shrugged. "I don't know. It's just a shitty day, I guess." He nodded, and I started climbing again. Vin followed a little reluctantly, and I figured he had more he wanted to say. But what could he say that would mean anything to me?
Dad was standing by the Jeep talking into his cell phone when we made it to the third-level landing. The sight caused me to stop walking, and Vin stumbled into me.
"Sorry," I mumbled, stepping aside fast. Dad caught sight of us and waved urgently, flipping his phone shut. I walked toward him slowly, knowing something bad must have happened, knowing it must involve me, powerless to do anything about it.
"That was Connie. We have to get back," Dad said as we reached the Jeep.
Dread gnawed at my stomach. "Why? What's going on?"
"I'll take you home first, Vin," Dad said, ignoring me.
"Um ..." Vin hesitated. "My truck—it's parked at your house."
"That's right," Dad said. "Damn it. Well, that can't be helped."
The cell phone rang again as we began the trip back to Wayne. Dad didn't answer it.
The phone rang several more times until Dad finally told Brian to turn off the ringer. Then, a few minutes later, as we were entering the town of Wayne, the car phone rang. Dad sighed, reaching for it.
"Yeah? Yeah, I know. Thanks." He listened, growing more agitated. "Okay. All right. Talk to you later, then." Dad set the phone back with exaggerated care.
Brian broke the silence. "Dad," he said timidly. "Who was on the phone? Was it Mom again?"
Dad waited so long I didn't think he was going to answer. "That was Dave," he said finally. "He's coming up tomorrow to talk to Jeff."
Vin turned to me, mouthing, "Dave?" I ignored him, suddenly cold. Wrapping my arms around my body, I turned away, staring out the window.
"The reporters are back," Dad said flatly. He said it in front of Vin. I hoped I only imagined the disgust I heard in his voice.
17
The next morning, Dad and I spent a silent breakfast together. For some incomprehensible reason he had prepared an elaborate meal: scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes and rolls. I picked at it only enough to avoid comment, then settled in the living room to wait for Stephens. I wanted to go up to my room but I didn't want to give Dad the chance to attack me again for "escaping."
I had recognized several of the reporters from before,- only this time they had harder looks, more of a pushing frenzy when we all emerged from the Jeep. Two of the TV crews had blocked our driveway and Dad had been forced to park on the street.
Silent this time, he had taken my elbow and steered me through the crowd. Cringing without knowing why, I had looked at Dad in mute apology as the reporters called my name, and his. His face wooden, Dad had merely propelled me the rest of the way to the door, looking back only once to bark, "Brian!" Brian had scrambled up the stairs after us, but not before one man's voice stood out of the crowd.
"Jeff, is it true Ray Slaight took nude photos of you?"
Unable to stop myself, I turned around to face my inquisitor as Dad fumbled with the door. As I had thought, it was the pudgy young man who had questioned me before. Standing ahead of the crowd and somehow apart from them, the reporter looked up at me, earnest and relentless.
"Is it true?" he prompted. "Did Slaight take pictures of you?"
Detached as the shock hit me, I shook my head. "No. It's not true."
Dad got the door open and tugged on the back of my jersey, murmuring my name. I sleepwalked the few steps back, Brian pushing past me. As the door shut on the mob, I had caught a glimpse of Vin at its edges, his gaze on me, sharp and speculative.
* * *
Ray and I stood in his front room, kissing. He held me close, moving his hands slowly over my body. Pleasure and shame washed over me in almost equal amounts.
Someone was outside, walking toward the house. Unless Ray hurried, he would not finish before the stranger arrived. But I could not rush him and I could not pull away from him. All I could do was live in Ray's time and move to his rhythm.
* * *
"Jeff!" Dad shouted, shaking my shoulder. My eyes flew open before I was truly awake. I stared at him, not sure where I was for a moment.
"You were having a nightmare," he said, pushing his hair back. "You must have fallen asleep on the couch."
I
sat up, breathing hard, wondering what he had seen.
"Are you all right?" Dad asked roughly. I nodded. "Must have been a bad one. You were . . . you almost fell off the couch, you were moving around so much."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"No, no," Dad said, waving a hand in my direction. He hesitated, looking away. "Listen, Dave is here."
"What?" I said, as my stomach clenched in on itself. "Here? Where?"
"He just pulled up outside," Dad modified. "So . . . get yourself together. You're going to talk to him now."
I didn't like the implied threat in his voice. "I have nothing to say to Stephens."
Or you.
"You are going to talk to him," Dad said. "But . . . go on and pull yourself together."
It was the second time he had said something like that, and I wondered how long he had watched me in my dream that was too close to the reality I had known. Then I realized I was drenched in sweat, far out of proportion to the temperature in the room.
"I'm going upstairs to take a shower," I said, testing him.
Dad nodded without looking at me. "That's fine, Jeff. Go ahead."
As the hot water pounded me, I ran my hands over the ridges in my back, letting myself really feel them for the first time. They felt huge, rough, corded, stretching as far up my spine as I could reach. I grabbed a washcloth off the towel rack, wrapped it around a bar of soap, and scoured my back, rubbing deep and hard.
I stood outside the living room for a moment, leaning my head against the wall, eyes closed. Dad and Stephens spoke so quietly I could not make out what they were saying. But then, afraid I might hear something I could not bear, I stepped into the archway where they could see me.
They stopped talking abruptly. "Come in," Dad said, nodding to me.
Stephens stood next to the picture window, more rumpled than ever. But his eyes were alert, intent on mine.
When Jeff Comes Home Page 11