by James King
Marcy tried to make out Nick’s features in the dark. “Aren’t we in a mood,” she said. Then, after a while: “He put food on the table.”
Now Nick made a sound Marcy could recognize.
“What are you snorting at?” she asked.
“I guess I just don’t understand why you always defend him.”
“I don’t always defend him,” Marcy said.
“Yes, you do. You can’t blame him for this, at least?”
“This? What, this? I hate to say it, I really do, but April instigated this. You don’t know what’s been going on at home with her. The old man is in on it, that’s true. But he’s losing it. He’s not entirely to blame. Can’t you see that?”
“Here’s what I see: I see a woman so confused that she feels compelled, for some reason, to defend the man she can’t even bring herself to call Dad. Your anger repression is unhealthy, Marcy. And it’s really starting to annoy me.”
Normally, after a comment like that, Marcy would relieve the sudden surge in blood pressure by unleashing a string of invectives that a drill sergeant would envy. But Hank had taught her that when customers, for example, get upset and sometimes even verbally abusive, they’re angry at the situation, not at you. The best course of action is to let the customers vent, acknowledge their frustration, not take it personally, and then calmly remind them of the benefits of working together. It worked. She knew it worked; she’d seen Hank do it . . . with her.
“Nick, I can tell you’re frustrated. Maybe we should both take a breather for a few minutes. Then we can discuss this calmly. I’m sure we’ll both benefit from a calmer approach.”
Nick turned to look at her. Marcy saw, in the phosphorous green reflection from the dashboard lights, that her brother was incredulous. Still, she waited. And then, at the same time, they both burst into laughter. Nick nearly lost control of the car.
They didn’t talk much for a long time. But every now and then, they’d start laughing. Nick started calling out the exits, and they’d break up at the mention of Indiana: Elkhart, Indiana; La Porte, Indiana; Valparaiso, Indiana.
When Nick called out Gary, Indiana, Marcy laughed so hard she thought she might start choking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As the red and blue lights bounced off the mirrors and windows, Bill Warrington wondered how he might calm his granddaughter. She was gripping the wheel tightly, as if she were still driving.
“What’s he doing?” she asked. “Why is he sitting there?”
“He’s just running the plates,” Bill said. “Making sure we’re not car thieves, desperados on the run. Bonnie and—”
“This is bad,” April said.
Something stopped him from reaching over and holding her hand—even though he knew that it was exactly what he should do. He remembered when dads starting hugging their sons instead of shaking hands. It began with those sissy, soul-brother handshakes. Strictly for draft dodgers and fags. “Shake hands like a man,” he had said to Nick when he saw Nick greet a school buddy that way.
“Grandpa, you’re not going to call him that, are you?” April asked.
“Call who what?”
“The policeman. A fag. You’re mumbling something about fags.”
Bill forced a laugh. Had he been mumbling?
A blue shirt and black tie appeared at April’s window. An index knuckle rapped on the window.
“You have to roll the window down, honey.”
April started pushing the handle the wrong way. “Why can’t you have a car with normal windows?” she asked, her voice a millimeter from a cry. She reversed direction, shaking visibly.
The trooper stepped back so he could lean over to look in. Hard to tell these days, but Bill guessed him to be in his late thirties, early forties. Close-cropped hair. Smelled of aftershave. Couldn’t tell the color of his eyes because of the hotshot sunglasses. Bill knew the type: hell-bent on protecting America from litterbugs.
“Everything okay, young lady?” the trooper asked.
“My granddaughter’s a little nervous,” Bill said.
“Oh? And why is that?” The trooper slowly looked away from April and over at Bill.
Bill smiled at his own reflection in the trooper’s glasses. “Remember the first time you got pulled over by a cop?”
The trooper paused. “Hasn’t happened yet,” he said. “License and registration, please, miss.” He stood and moved closer to the car as a semi roared by.
“What’s the problem, officer?” Bill asked, calling out. “I didn’t think we were speeding.”
The trooper looked at April. “License and registration.”
April turned to Bill.
“Well, see, officer, she doesn’t have her license yet. I’m teaching her.”
The trooper removed his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes at Bill as he continued to address April. “Then let me see your learner’s permit, young lady.”
“She doesn’t have that, either,” Bill said. “See, I guess I’m old-school. My old man taught me how to drive. Kind of a tradition in our family. Know what I mean? These fancy new driver courses aren’t all they’re fired up to be.”
The trooper tipped his sunglasses to look over at Bill.
“Sir, if your granddaughter was in one of those courses, she’d know that driving thirty-five miles an hour on a highway is just as dangerous as going eighty. Do you have your license with you, sir?”
Bill struggled to get his wallet out of his back pocket. He finally found it behind some scraps of paper—receipts from gas stations that he’d been collecting for no good reason he could think of.
“Excuse me, miss,” the trooper said as he reached across her to get Bill’s license. Bill noticed the small tattoo on the trooper’s wrist. “How old are you?” he asked as he examined Bill’s license.
“Well, as you can see on the license, I’m—”
“I’m speaking to the young lady, sir.”
The trooper looked up from the license at April, who squeaked out a “Fifteen.”
“Fifteen, sir,” Bill said. He winked at the trooper. “Just trying to teach her some respect. Kind of like they taught you in South Carolina.”
“Pardon?”
“Saw your tat. Parris Island, am I right?” Bill asked, smiling.
The trooper shook his head. “San Diego.”
Bill nodded. “Ah. No wonder.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, nothing, really. It’s just that a marine from Paradise wouldn’t hassle a girl over going too slow. You sure you’re a marine, boy? Not just another pussy recruit from Califagya?”
“Grandpa!” April yelled. “I’m sorry, officer,” she said quickly, stuttering furiously. “He doesn’t mean that. Sometimes—I mean, like, not like all the time or anything like that—he doesn’t—”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Bill said. He looked at the trooper and smiled again. “Just two leathernecks, swappin’ lies, right? They teach you boys anything about the action in Korea? The Punch-bowl? You want to talk cold? So cold you were afraid to take a piss, afraid the piss would freeze right inside your pecker. Vietnam, the Gulf . . . country clubs in comparison, am I right?”
The trooper tapped Bill’s license against his knuckle. “Remain in your vehicle,” he said, and walked off.
“Why did you say that?” April asked, still shaking. “Why can’t you just be a normal old person?”
“Don’t worry so much. He’s okay. A little too spit- and-polish, but once a marine, right? He’s just checking to make sure I’m not a mass murderer or something. So don’t worry, I haven’t killed anyone since . . .”
The words got caught in his throat. He had a sudden vision of Mike screaming at him. He had to feign a coughing fit. Goddamn these sudden flashes. Memories popped in front of him without warning, fresh, happening for the first time. And it wasn’t just the memory: All the feelings he had felt at the time—the anger, shame, or exhilaration—compressed themselves into a small, c
lenched fist and popped him good. And they were becoming more frequent. Bill patted his pockets and found his pipe, only to remember that he’d wanted his handkerchief. He was sweating, after all. He didn’t want April to see that. He fiddled with his pipe, put it back in his pocket, and wiped the sweat from his upper lip with his hand, pretending to yawn.
“This is bad,” April muttered. “We’re going to jail, I just know it.”
Another knuckle tap. The trooper was back sooner than Bill had expected. April rolled the window down—successfully this time.
“Young lady, it’s too dangerous to make the switch here, so I want you to drive to the next exit, pull into the first parking lot you see, and let your grandfather take over. I was watching you, and you were doing fine, just going too slow. But you’re too young to have even a learner’s permit. I can’t have you driving on our roads.”
“Yes,” April replied. “Sir.”
The trooper smiled and nodded. Then he looked at Bill. His smile disappeared. He reached across and handed Bill his license. “I don’t suppose you know that your license expired two years ago?”
Bill smiled. “No idea,” he said.
“Take care of it when you get back to Ohio,” the trooper said.
“I will,” Bill said. “So where’d you see action? Nam? Nah, you’re too young. The Gulf?”
The trooper stood. “The minute you get back to Ohio, hear?”
A few moments later, Bill heard April exhale and the trooper’s door slam.
“Semper fi,” Bill muttered. “You and your faggot sunglasses.”
“What should I do?” April asked.
Bill guided her back onto the highway.
“He’s following us,” she said, watching the rearview mirror more than the road in front of her.
“Just drive normally. Stay at fifty-five.” He lowered himself in his seat so he could watch the trooper from the passenger-side mirror.
“How long do you think he’ll follow us?” April asked.
Bill didn’t answer. He was pretty sure the trooper was looking into the same mirror he was. No dummy, that trooper. Served his country. Probably even re-upped. Now he was just doing his job. A good man.
He looked back into the mirror and saw that the trooper had his left turn signal on. The patrol car eased into the left lane and then into a grassy strip between eastbound and westbound, just before a bridge.
“Perfect,” Bill said. “He’s setting up a speed trap.”
April flicked on the turn signal.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting off at the exit, like he told me.”
“Don’t bother,” Bill said. “I told you—he’s gone. Just keep driving.”
But April didn’t. She did as the trooper told her. When they were in the parking lot of the Dunkin’ Donuts next to the exit, she turned off the car and handed the keys to Bill. Something in the way the car suddenly went quiet, perhaps the tinkle of the keys, reminded him of a little ritual he and Clare shared in the early years. Whenever they returned from driving somewhere, he’d park the car, turn off the ignition, jingle the keys, and say, “Home, Clare. Safe and sound.” These were often the only words spoken during long stretches of their trip. Another man’s wife might fuss about the silence, about the lack of conversation. Clare never badgered him to “open up” with her, to “share.” They never fought over silence. They never felt the need to examine each slight, each potentially inconsiderate implication. He sometimes thought that the most contented moments of his marriage were surrounded by those silences.
Home, Clare. Safe and sound.
Clare would reply, “My hero.” She’d lean over and kiss him.
This continued for years, even as the kids in the back got older and would moan Ewww! or Gross! at the horrific semi-public display of affection. After a while, Bill couldn’t pinpoint when, the kiss on the lips became a peck on the cheek. And after the diagnosis, he didn’t feel quite right saying, “Safe and sound.”
“And safe and sound is how I want to stay, Grandpa,” April said, putting the keys in his hand before he even realized he was holding it open.
“I thought you wanted to learn how to drive.”
“I do. I just don’t want to get thrown in jail.”
“No one’s going to throw us in jail. Just keep driving the way you’re driving, right on the speed limit, maybe a little over so they don’t think you’re running drugs, and we’ll be fine.”
He held out the keys. April crossed her arms and stared at him. Bill saw Marcy. But then he saw Clare. That look: fed up, expectant, patient, condescending, loving, hopeful.
“Goddammit,” he said, flinging the keys into April’s lap. “If you want to go to Seattle, then you’re going to have to—”
“San Francisco.”
“Whatever. If you want to get there, drive. You want to follow this big dream you’re always moaning about? Then drive. You don’t want to drive, you want to let some frustrated Rambo scare you, take away your dream—you want me to drive? Then we head back to Woodlake. You decide.”
April’s face fell. “Grandpa, why are you being so mean?”
Bill felt the sensation that he had come to dread coming over him. He braced himself for the little surges in his head, the tiny bright red and green lights that flashed in front of him, as when you press your fingers against your closed eyes.
Keeping his eyes locked on April helped. The shapes didn’t appear. The pulsing sensation in his head ebbed. April looked as though she might start crying.
“You may have noticed that sometimes my mind wanders,” he said, his voice soft, calm, defeated. “Sometimes I suddenly wonder what I’m doing. Wondering how long I’ve been doing it, how I got there. Even where I am. Or I can’t do anything but close my mind and try to sleep. No matter what. I don’t realize sometimes what I’m doing. Or I suddenly find myself asleep.” He paused, caught his breath. “I don’t think we want any of that when I’m driving, do we?”
It took a long time for April to respond.
“Grandpa, are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine, and don’t start getting all concerned about me,” Bill answered, feeling much better. “This stuff happens. No big deal. Now let’s get back on the road. Unless you want a doughnut? Would you like one? I could go for one. I could definitely go for one.”
April kept staring at her grandfather. Then she picked up the keys, inserted the correct one in the ignition, and started the car.
“No offense, Grandpa,” she said, “but this definitely sucks.”
As she pulled out of the parking lot, her cell phone rang.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Marcy had promised to stay awake and keep Nick company while he drove, but she had finally given in to her exhaustion and was breathing deeply, evenly. Every now and then she’d let out a small sound, a high-pitched yip of some sort. Was she dreaming about April? Was it the sound of relief? Or rejection? He wasn’t a betting man, but at this hour—with the I-80 traffic backed up and creeping alongside the endless miles of predawn construction—Nick supposed he’d put his money on the latter. He’d never thought of himself as a pessimist, but Marcy’s understandable inability to keep her promise had left him alone to deal—unsuccessfully thus far—with the self-lacerating thoughts that assailed him with each beam of light from the traffic zipping past in the opposite direction. For a while it seemed that each flash illuminated Peggy and her migraine in a sleek black dress.
Was something similar in store for Marcy, for all of them? The thought of yet another defeat—this one at the hands of his own father—was so unsettling that he now seriously entertained the idea of chartering a plane in Chicago to ensure they’d make it to Arnolds Park in time, before the old bastard had a chance to make a fool of Marcy the way Peggy Gallagher had of him.
He’d thought being a gentleman was what women wanted. No pressure. A nice guy. Fool. How painful would it be if he were to drive into the nearest bridge abut
ment?
Maybe Mike had made the right decision to make himself as scarce as possible. Everyone has to find their own way of dealing, of coping. But in avoiding his father so completely, Mike seemed to have decided for whatever reason that it was necessary to cut himself off from the rest of his family, too. It was an arrangement Nick could never quite understand—and the reason now that he was skeptical of his brother’s assurances that he would be at the park to meet them, the old man included.
And if the old man pulled another bait and switch on them, Nick vowed, he’d call the cops right there.
There wasn’t much to remember about Arnolds Park itself from the family vacation all those years ago, so little time did they spend at the place. There was a lake nearby and a dock with the water that had once lapped his own puke up against the wood. The deadly combination of cotton candy and the Rotor had sent him out to the dock to hurl a second time—the first being, to his dismay, on the ride itself. Nick remembered specifically looking at the floor dropping beneath him, the yellow line that a few moments earlier had been touching his toes. He’d started feeling light-headed and was wishing the spinning would end when a collective groan arose. Thanks to the circular motion of the ride, Nick’s vomit splatter covered a generous area. The attendant gave him a dirty look when the rotating stopped, and one of the riders, about Nick’s age, gave him a push as they made their way down the exit ramp. Mike sucker punched the kid and grabbed Nick, and the two of them ran into the crowd toward the lake. It was right after this that something happened to Marcy on the roller coaster and they all rushed to the hospital for what turned out to be a butterfly bandage and an ice pack, but the whys and wherefores of that escaped him. That their father was summoning his daughter to the site of what was most likely one of her most traumatic memories struck him as both characteristic and appalling.
Why not have them gather at a place where he’d actually gotten it right? Such as the summer that just he and Mike and their father went on a camping trip to Presque Isle in Pennsylvania. Marcy was too young to go, and their mother didn’t like camping, so it was just “us guys,” as their dad said when he announced the trip. They had never been camping before, and Nick didn’t know what to expect. He was amazed at the speed and ease with which his father erected a four-man tent, complete with bunk bed-style cots. There were other surprises. His father started a fire—a big one—without paper or lighter fluid. He handled fishing rods and bait as if he went fishing every weekend. He even showed them how to gut the fish they caught, filet them, and fry them over the fire. At night he let them catch lightning bugs while he had a beer and stared into the fire and got the tent ready for the night. In their sleeping bags, they’d beg him for a story. His father wasn’t a storyteller, but it didn’t matter much. They were so exhausted from swimming and fishing and playing in the woods that they fell asleep almost immediately. On the ride home, Nick asked his father where he’d learned all that outdoors stuff. His father grunted and told him that he’d learned it the hard way, the right way: in the marines.