As we approach the campus, there are questions I want to ask him. Like why he never went to the police in the first place. Or why he considers me a fellow outcast he can trust. Or why he never took the time to proclaim his innocence in the letter he sent. I want to ask why he didn’t defend Nicole’s memory in the dorm that day, and where he ran off to for nearly a week. Aside from the questions, I want to tell him I believe him. And let him know I’m sorry for his loss. It’s obvious that he and Nicole were in love. Maybe they knew each other for a short time, and maybe the relationship was anything but a typical teenage romance, but it’s clear that what they had was something he not only believed in, but something that changed him.
By the time I park the Winnebago beside Rollie’s house, I know our conversation is over. It has a sense of finality to it and I have no intention of pushing him any further. Maybe there are reasonable explanations for the missing pieces. It hardly matters. Nothing will change. Nick will still be expelled in the morning. His story, he must feel, will be a waste to tell anyone not outcast enough. And his girlfriend will still be dead. I turn off the ignition. Nick is working on what must be his tenth cigarette. He seems calm to the point of sedate. Turning to him, I start to say something. When no words come out, I improvise:
“Those things are killers, you know.”
After forming a perfect smoke ring, he exhales through his nose. Then he turns to me with the pack and offers me one, which I accept. The campus is quiet. No lights are on in my father’s house. I know it’s unlikely that he’s sleeping inside. He’s probably in his office or the therapy lounge with Eileen, awaiting our return. Nick lights my cigarette and we sit in silence for a while and smoke. I’m surprised to discover that I don’t cough. After a minute, Nick turns to get a look at me. Then, leaning his head back on the seat, he sighs a little and mentions how a couple of beers would go nicely with the cigarettes.
. . .
Travel days are hectic. I recall them from when I was a kid. The buzz on Wildwood Road begins a little after breakfast. It’s an assembly line - parents and taxis and airport shuttle services drive onto the campus, circle for a while to find a parking space, load luggage and passengers, and head off towards the interstate. Activity in the dorms is no different. The kids are frantic. For many of them, home is where their troubles began. Yet despite such trepidation, Rollie has always encouraged these two-week reunions. “You’re not a stowaway,” he’ll tell the overanxious student, “the Hundred Acre School does not harbor stowaways. Go be with your family and see what happens.” As insurance, the kids always have access to their therapist’s as well as the Old Man’s number.
Usually by early afternoon, all the students are gone and the school settles into a lull of stillness and late summer sunshine. The staff are next to leave. They’re often on the road before dusk. Sometimes a few of them remain, reveling in the new calm of the campus. But they mostly all use the time to vacation or to visit their families.
My father stays behind. He always has. Once the school is deserted, he might unwind by jogging or gardening or playing pool in the pavilion. I know how he regards the school: In his mind, it’s embodied as the closest thing he has to some sort of detached alter ego. When the students are present, it’s next to impossible for him to reconcile with the notion that so much of his own spirit is imbued in the place. When he has it all to himself, though, that changes. He walks around the campus with a soaring sense of quiet pride, no doubt wondering where all the years went, while at the same time considering how many might be left.
So it’s surprising - shocking even - when he corners me in the dining hall just minutes into breakfast to announce his plans to take a trip.
“Where to?”
“I thought I’d start with New Hampshire. Pay a visit to Jeanne and Walter.”
It takes a moment for it to register that he’s talking about my aunt and uncle on my mother’s side.
“For how long?”
“Two or three days. Then it’s off to Cornell for a day or two. And from there, I’m heading west. I’ll stop when and where I feel the urge. I have two weeks, so we’ll see what happens.”
“You’re driving?”
“Of course. In style, I might add.”
“The Winnebago?”
“Absolutely.”
“If you were any more sentimental, you’d be unbearable.”
“If you were just a little bit more, you’d be tolerable.”
“Fair enough.”
As the day’s rituals take hold - cleaning and packing and student pick-ups - I find myself considering over and over the Old Man’s trip. There was a gleam in his eyes when he told me his plans. This makes sense. The poor guy hasn’t had an adventure in years. It’s in me somewhere to be happy for him. There’s no doubt the trip will turn into some sort of tribute for his youth. It’s easy to envision him blasting Cat Stevens, revisiting his old haunts, and talking aloud to my mother’s ghost, insisting that she’s there with him, guiding his memory into savagely blissful terrain. Picturing all of this does me good. Yet one competing thought that I can’t seem to shake is whether I’ll be invited on the road with him.
Through the chaos of cleaning the dorm, helping the kids pack, and meeting some of their families, I find myself looking over my shoulder for my father, waiting for him to sneak up on me with the suggestion that I go with him, apologizing that it’s so last-minute. This never happens.
I’m instead approached by a number of parents. Meredith’s, a tall, intimidating couple with Ivy League swagger, shake my hand and tell me that their daughter has enjoyed her time in my writers group. J.J.’s mother also introduces herself to me. A pleasant woman, she’s as redheaded as her son, yet she looks young enough to be an older sister. I meet Adam’s father, a heavyset man with a ponytail and a limp in his left leg; he slaps me on the shoulder and says he’s heard a lot about me. There’s Cliff’s parents, who made the drive all the way from Akron; there’s Cal’s mother, who thanks me for looking after her son. I meet the parents of kids I have in the classroom and in the dorm and in the writers group. Some of them seem as troubled and odd as their children. Some are obviously educated, decent people.
“Meredith tells us you might not be returning after the break,” says her father. “We’re sorry to hear that. Just a summer fling, huh?”
It never occurred to me that the uncertainty of my return might’ve become rumor. What’s more, it’s never occurred to me to say goodbye to anyone in the event that I don’t return.
“I’m not sure. Just weighing my options.”
“He’s gonna quit just so we can’t read any of his writing,” says Meredith.
“Pretty good detective work,” I tell her.
“I know it. But even I’m not good enough to figure what those options of yours might be.”
“To be honest, I haven’t thought them through yet. That’s the truth. We’ll see.”
The girl smiles. After wishing me luck on whatever I decide, she leans in close so only I can hear her:
“Interesting use of the pronoun we. Don’t you think?”
By the time the students are gone, and the campus is left only with an exhausted staff, Rollie calls a brief meeting in front of the SOD office.
“This sound,” he says, pausing, allowing the new silence to resonate for a moment, “has been hard-earned. There’s no doubt. We’ve had one hell of a summer. And I’ve asked a hell of a lot from each of you. But today, before you leave for your travels and your adventures and your families, I need to ask something more. I need to ask that you leave your burdens here. I’ll accept them, all of them. And I’ll take them with me on my own trip. There might even be room enough in that beast I’ll be driving. Don’t get me
wrong: I’m no martyr. I just need you all to go away from this place and forget about it so you can come back with openness and enthusiasm.”
He ends with a little philosophy. He mentions John Stuart Mill and the principle of utility. It isn’t hedonism the Old Man is promoting, but instead simple happiness and pleasure.
Some of my colleagues find me and wish me a restful break. Ryan tells me he’ll be spending a few days in New York City with his girlfriend. Tennille, Sandra, and Amber will be biking in Cape Cod. Dave is going back home to Peabody, which he tells me is just outside of Boston. Nussbaum will be visiting his son and daughter-in-law in Atlanta.
“What about you?” he asks. “Will you be holding down the fort here with Louise?”
“Maybe.”
“Somebody has to do it.”
“What do you know about this trip my father is taking?”
“I know he’s looking forward to it, and that it’s well-deserved.”
“Has he been planning it?”
“You know Rollie’s never been much of a planner. Especially for something like this. No, I think it was born out of necessity.”
We shake hands and he tells me to take it easy and rest my injuries. He starts to walk away before he suddenly stops and leans in towards me.
“Maybe when he gets back you two can have that talk that’s so long overdue.”
By dinner time, everyone is gone. The campus is officially on hiatus. Rollie calls to tell me he’ll be leaving shortly. He asks that I meet him in the dining hall, where he’s looting Mickey’s kitchen for provisions to bring on his trip. By the time I arrive a few minutes later, the vehicle is loaded and parked adjacent to the building. He’s taken bottled water, dorm snacks, dried fruit, and cereal. He jokes with me that he’ll make it look like a robbery to keep Mickey off his back. Handing me the keys to the school, he points out the ones that might be of use while he’s away. He reminds me that Louise and her staff will still be on the clock, patrolling the grounds and maintaining security. We end up sitting at his table, looking out the window to a garden of white and purple impatiens, waiting for the other to say something.
“I thought by the end of summer it would be you to get in the car and drive away.”
“So did I,” I admit.
“No one’s stopping you, you know.”
“I know.”
I start mindlessly flipping through the song selection on Matt’s and Adam’s jukebox. My father’s attention is on the tapestry with the school’s mission statement embossed on it. From his seat, he has a perfect view of it on the far wall. He sighs after a while and asks about my ribs and collarbone. I tell him I’m okay.
“I had to dig up some old photos of your Aunt Jeanne last night, you know. It’s been a long time. I goddamn near forgot what she looks like. Turns out she looks just like your mother. She used to anyway. I’m trying to convince myself that a large part of my visit is not just to see what your mother might’ve looked like if she were alive today. I’m having a tough time, though.”
“You don’t need to rationalize your trip to me. Go. Enjoy.”
“Is this place really that bad for you?”
“It’s not bad. It’s just—”
He cuts in, admitting that he shouldn’t have asked that question.
“Now’s not the time for that talk,” he says, suggesting we wait until he returns.
He adds that he knows this is dependent upon whether or not I’m still here.
“If you do decide to leave,” he says, standing up from his chair, “Louise will take those keys off your hands.”
He pulls me up from my chair and throws his arms around me, telling me he’ll give my regards to Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Walter. I wish him a safe trip. When he makes his way to the door of the dining hall, he turns to tell me that if I’m hungry there’s some of Mickey’s homemade chicken salad and Swedish meatballs in the fridge; they were made fresh this morning at his request, he says, especially for me.
Sitting back down, this time in my father’s chair, I wait for the Winnebago’s engine to start. It fires up after a moment, idles briefly, and recedes into the distance. Turning back to the jukebox, I continue searching through the song selections. There’s music by T-Rex and Willie Nelson and Steely Dan and Cheap Trick. On the very last sleeve of songs is one I haven’t heard in probably fifteen years. I press K8, and after a moment it begins to play. My mind suddenly wanders to my writers group and our meetings in this very room; I can’t help but smile over images conjured by Dorian’s crude comedic sketches, or the precocious beauty of Dan’s song lyrics, or the romantic grandeur of Matt’s poems. And there’s Adam’s intensity and Meredith’s candor and clever ambiguity. They’re all out there now, all of them. They’re out there with Nick and Eileen Russo. And Austin Roarick. They’re out there with Laura and Glenn Kilburn. And with poor Mr. and Mrs. D’Ambrosio. And now with my father. Everybody’s out there.
The small jukebox speakers can’t repress the gorgeous harmony I’m hearing. It sounds like one voice with multiple lives lived within it. And the harmony rises above the music - the acoustic guitars and the pedal steel and the bass and percussion - with a courage that isn’t showy and in fact still has much to prove. I’m grateful for the song, grateful that I’m able to listen to it because of the devotion and toil of two industrious young men who figured that an old wall unit jukebox would go nicely at Rollie’s table.
My ribs begin to ache a little and I suddenly feel hungry. I’m grateful for the food the Old Man asked Mickey to make for me. As soon as the song ends, I’m going to get up and fix myself a hearty plate. For now, though, I’ll rest my body in the Old Man’s chair, reveling in the sweetness of a melody that brings with it both the clumsy mirages of the past, and the strange miracles of my recent summer at the HAS. This is idle time, which suits me well. As does the solitude. My mind needs not a single challenge or shot of wisdom. Yet as much as I long for this respite, and no matter how hard I will myself to bask in it, it’s impossible to ignore the weightiness of sitting in my father’s seat as I nurse my injuries and behold the school’s mission statement I’ve either been reading or thinking about for the better part of my life.
About the Author
Everybody’s Out There is Robert M. Marchese’s third book. He has published one other novel, Nine Lies, as well as a memoir, Land of July. Additionally, Robert has published both short fiction and nonfiction in a variety of publications and literary journals. He lives on the Connecticut shoreline with his family.
Note from the Author
Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed Everybody’s Out There, please leave a review online—anywhere you are able. Even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.
Thanks!
Robert M. Marchese
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