Unfolding

by Jonathan Friesen

  “But that can’t be.” I leaned over the words. “How did Tres get the other half? I saw him rip it and write it. And she won’t go near him.”

  “Tres. You got the bottom lines from Tres?” Dad glanced at Ma and then back to me. “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “Not that specific detail. He couldn’t have known the number.” Dad spun and strode out of the room. Ma placed a trembling hand over her mouth, stroked my head, and then followed him out.

  I blinked and reread the entire note.

  Need to get away for a few days.

  Please, come see me.

  Take my birthday path to our place.

  I should never have saved any of those eighteen kids.

  It would have been a fair trade.

  I didn’t do my job, and that’s because of Jonah.

  CHAPTER 6

  I woke early to the crisp lightness of a blue sky, a hinting at the clear day to come. But it did not feel clear. I grabbed my camera, hoping to take some shots, eager to find beauty through my lens and return to normal. But as I stepped out the trailer door, the weight of some unnatural fog settled over me. It turned out that I wasn’t the only one.

  Confusion surrounding the accident drew Gullary’s students together.

  Signs and banners sprung up outside houses, on storefronts.

  WE ARE GULLARY

  REMEMBER GINA

  Truth be told, nobody cared much for Gina while she drew breath, and it pains me now even to mention it. Death muddies the realities of life. Unexplainable words began to circulate about her final moments on this earth, words recounting heroic actions and steadfast convictions. Had she not remained resolute, while the rest of us fled the doomed bus? Like a captain, sacrificing her life as her crew escaped on lifeboats, wasn’t that Gina?

  The high school called it quits three days early in light of events; final exams were administered via the postal service. That day before the funeral, I saw all but two of my classmates: Gina and Stormi.

  The senior class floated aimlessly through town in small patches beneath that cloudless sky. What were we doing? Why were we wandering? I can’t say, except that whenever I saw one of the fortunate ones who exited the bus, I knew they felt as I did.

  We were the walking dead. Those who should not be alive. Mortality had come to Gullary in search of victims and, finding only two, decided to take up residence. It clouded my thoughts, troubled my dreams. None of us knew how to handle it.

  Least of all me.

  I couldn’t stay inside the museum, and after making a silent six a.m. food delivery to a sleeping Tres, I locked the gallery and shuffled through town, hoping to meet my classmates. Usually my mockers and tormenters, the sight of them held no dread; without Stormi to make sense of my feelings, isolation was my only enemy.

  Strange. One life ends and the living cling to each other all the more.

  Wally, six foot seven and the closest thing Gullary had to an athlete, hailed me from behind while I meandered down Main Street.

  I stopped, and he jogged up to me. “Jonah, I, uh, thanks, man. Yeah, that’s it. No, thank her too.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time Wally had spoken to me. It felt good, and for an instant, I mattered. Had I not been the one to slam the brakes? To plead our case before Hank, and save everyone but Gina? But pride is fleeting, especially when unjustified. It had been Stormi, and Stormi alone. Had I been alone, we’d all be dead.

  “I’ll tell her, if I see her.” I glanced over his shoulder. Carly and Madison fast approached, their faces puffy and red.

  A word on Carly and Madison: They existed at the top of the food chain. Girls, Stormi excluded, fought and scratched for the pair’s approval. Guys seeking bragging rights hungered for more than that.

  Both gave Wally a hug, long and real, and then turned to me. Awkward moments ensued.

  “Can’t stay inside today,” Carly finally said, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “It’s so totally depressing. It’s like suffocating or something.” She paused. “I mean, what if I would’ve stayed on the bus? I could’ve sat there. There was no reason to get out. It was raining and we had finals. How did you and Stormi know that would happen?” she asked, but did not wait for my reply. “I mean, I know she knows things.”

  “I didn’t have a clue—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not believing Dad. Stormi wouldn’t do that to Gina, and she warned her too. It’s so weird today.” She scuffed the sidewalk with her sandal. “We’re still alive, right?”

  In that instant, Carly passed from know-nothing to deep thinker, at least in my book. She nailed it, the question we were all asking, and the reason we were walking the streets. We wanted to feel the warmth, the breeze. We needed reassurance our feet still touched the earth.

  Carly gave me a hug. Maybe it wasn’t as long as the one Wally received, but it counted nonetheless. Madison, two notches harsher but five notches more attractive, followed suit.

  A stranger to appreciation, I found it as awkward as a group shower in phys ed, and stuttered some drivel about thanking Stormi when I see her and feeling in shock and wishing Gina was still here.

  The mention of Gina’s name extracted a fresh round of tears from the girls, which was followed by more hugs for me.

  My presence had a very different effect on adults. Even those whose kids Stormi had saved cast wary glances my way. I had become an Other, like Stormi. Suspect. No longer homegrown Jonah with an unfortunate back and brain. No longer one to pity.

  One who left Gina to die. One who could have done more.

  One to dread.

  My wanderings carried me into the DairyWhip, one of the few open businesses, and I plunked down my dollar.

  Mrs. Contulky emerged quickly from the back, drying her hands on her apron. “What can I get for—” Our gazes locked, and I offered my most pleasant smile. Her face pruned, and she slowed and swallowed hard, her lower lip pinched between her teeth. “Can I help you?”

  I frowned and lowered myself onto a stool. “Well, yeah. It’s me, Jonah? Same as always. Cone. Vanilla. A little caramel?” I cast her a sideways glance. “Please?”

  She peered at me a moment before slowly reaching for the bill and turning toward the soft-serve machine.

  “People treat you strangely.” This from Arthur, sitting at the far end of the counter. “That was an eleven-second stare she gave you. Your regular order has never garnered you an eleven-second stare.”

  He hopped up and hunkered down next to me. Arthur Bales was the one person I did not want to see today.

  A senior like myself, he had also been on the bus, but not even death could faze Arthur. Was he happy? Was he distraught? His face offered no tells. Of all the students in Gullary, he alone, as far as I could recollect, had never mocked me. Maybe because hiding behind the largest glasses in town was a kid who had taken his own lumps. Or perhaps his eyesight was so poor, he simply hadn’t noticed my hunch.

  Arthur was odd, his affect rarely matching the moment. Socially, he was lost in this world. But he was brilliant, claiming to have an IQ of 160 or some number in the stratosphere. Still, he failed English Lit and Chemistry and Health, instead choosing to master all of life’s minute details, which pretty much made his IQ irrelevant.

  “Hey, Arthur. Some day, huh?” I stared straight ahead and reached out for my cone. Mrs. Contulky set it down on the counter and walked quickly into the back room.

  “It’s a beautiful morning.” Arthur took one last slurp of Cherry Freezie. “Where’s Stormi?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I lied.

  Arthur nodded, reached for a pepper shaker, and slid it across the counter until it rested between us. He squinted at that shaker, and finally nodded. “I’ve been thinking about this for some time now. I have decided on my next move.”

  “What next move? Oh no. Your little chess match will need to wait. I fed Tres this morning and I’m not going back to see him for a while.”

&nb
sp; “I need you to make the move.” Arthur started a nervous tap on the counter. “I need it done today.”

  “No.”

  Arthur shook, as was his custom when presented with a curveball. “Bishop to G5,” and then louder, “Bishop to G5. Zugzwang. Yet again, he’s done it to me. The evils of zugzwang.”

  “Zig—”

  “Zugzwang! He forces me to make a move, but every move weakens my position. This man is an expert at placing me in zugzwang.” Arthur leaned over. “Are you sure I’m not battling a computer?”

  I laughed. “No. I wish you could see the man you’re playing. Imagine a severely tooth-deficient old guy. But our agreement needs to hold. Tres can’t communicate with the outside world. You’re playing completely under the table. No mentioning him except to me.”

  “I haven’t been illegal!” He pounded the counter. “Move me! Zugzwang. Zugzwang!”

  I glanced at Arthur, picked up the shaker, and sighed. How strange our minds were. His brain was brilliant, but he couldn’t handle the slightest change of plans. My brain, completely unbrilliant, yet it hurtled me to the floor whenever it chose.

  “I tell you what. After tomorrow’s funeral . . .” I took a slurp of melting ice cream. “I’ll head over and see Tres. There’s an unusual note issue we need to discuss, and I’ll inform him of your move then.”

  Arthur’s eyes glazed. He seemed to retreat deep inside himself, to a lonely land I didn’t want to visit. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips tensed. He shook free and quick glanced my way. “Yes. That will be fine.” I smiled and patted his straight back. On a day filled with confusion, the predictably quirky behavior of Arthur calmed me.

  I glanced at my cone. It was no longer appealing, and I pushed off the stool and tossed it into the garbage.

  “Have a good day, Arthur. And you too, Mrs. Contulky!”

  No response from the back, but as I exited the door, Arthur called, “Remember the move. Bishop to G5.”

  I stepped into daylight with Arthur’s words on my mind. He wasn’t the only one in zugzwang. Me, Stormi; it seemed like every move we made angered somebody. Dad, Ma, Mr. Cartwright . . . somebody. I couldn’t wait to see my beautiful friend, but already I feared our eventual return home.

  She’d be asked to explain how she knew, and she’d give the answer she always gave, the one that was frustrating and evasive, and never satisfied: “The truth unfolds. It just unfolds a little faster for me than it does for you.”

  Zugzwang.

  I spotted the perfect kicking stone on Main Street. It was red limestone and the size of a golf ball and it stayed with me all the way home to A Street, where I gave it one last kick toward our trailer. It bounced off the gravel street, and skipped across the grass that long ago took over the driveway. It came to rest beneath our lean-to, beneath the lawn tractor.

  My blasted lawn tractor.

  Trucks were the standard set of wheels for teens in Gullary. Not for an epileptic. As a seizure-free year seemed an impossibility, Dad downgraded expectations and traded five chickens for an orange Husqvarna riding mower.

  He washed it up, and, with great ceremony, walked me outside with his paw over my eyes.

  “I bought you something. Every kid needs a set of wheels.”

  “You’re kidding me!” In that moment, all Dad’s faults were forgiven. “But I can’t drive!”

  He removed his hand, and rounded my shoulder with his arm. “Sure you can. You didn’t think I’d be so cruel as to buy you something you can’t use.”

  I stared at that stupid tractor.

  No, I would never think you could be cruel.

  “So, is something wrong with the push mower?” I asked.

  He walked over and leaned against the Husky, kicked the tire. “You misunderstand. This is not for work, this is for your transportation. This is for pleasure.”

  “Pleasure.”

  “I’m not as old as you might think. I remember the freedom a good set of wheels can bring.”

  I coughed. “So this is for dates, and road trips, and all that freedom stuff.”

  “Might take a few modifications, but this deck here, that’ll support a bag of groceries, your meds.” He walked back, a twinkle in his eye. “Can’t say that this might not improve your prospects around here. Girls like a guy with his own wheels.”

  I knew he was trying—in his own way, he was trying—but I could not endure it.

  “It’s a flippin’ mower! I can’t drive this around Gullary. So, what, I go on a date, and five hours later we pull in to the Waxton drive-in, blades blazing? We make out, cut the lawn, make out some more?”

  “Calm, son. It’s for transportation, not procreation.” His face fell. “Things are different now. You’re different now. The quicker we accept that what you aren’t . . . that you aren’t . . . you know—”

  “No, I don’t. What am I not?”

  He looked off. “Normal.”

  Dad left his abnormal son standing alone, staring at his ride. One week later, I drove my tractor to the drugstore. Two weeks later, Stormi removed the blade and replaced the engine. She turned it into a 40 mph machine, able to reach top in-town speeds.

  But I never did take Stormi to the drive-in.

  Only jerks could do that.

  I turned my gaze from my tractor, and stared at our trailer. Silent. The hills swallowed all sound in Gullary, and with Stormi gone, it seemed quieter still.

  The outside of our home was falling apart. Shingles hung crooked, and the screen door sported one hinge. Dad lacked the basic handyman skills common to most men in town. Even the mailbox stood cocked.

  Mailbox. I wonder.

  I walked toward the Pickerings’ and peeked inside. One letter. Stamped and outbound.

  A letter from Stormi.

  Tampering with the mail was a big-deal offense, but every so often, generally late at night, I took the risk.

  I removed the envelope and quick-stepped inside. I hurried into my room, plopped on the bed, and stared at the writing. They were always addressed the same.

  Mom

  1111 Wherever St.

  Home, KS 51111

  Kansas. Do you know that?

  I slid my finger beneath the flap, and fell onto my back.

  Dear Mom,

  It was great to see you.

  Eighteen, it was a really special birthday. Glad you took some time out from your busy life to come see me. I felt we shared some nice moments. Oh, you know, the moment we didn’t have together watching the sunrise. Then there was that nice moment we didn’t have hiking toward the Green. Oh, and then my candle moment; that was another nice birthday moment we didn’t share.

  Don’t worry; Jonah took your place. Again. He always does. He always will. That’s who he is—dependable, caring, concerned—all the things a mother should be.

  Sorry. It’s just that I really could use you right now. Right now I’m messing up in every way possible. Right now, Connor is out of control, and I won’t give him any more space in this note. Right now, everyone in Gullary thinks I messed up by doing something good, and I’m starting to believe them.

  But not Jonah. I keep coming back to him, but he keeps coming back for me. I can’t lose him; he’s all I have. I used to feel that way about you.

  I wish you two could meet. He’d show you how a mother should be.

  Your daughter,

  Stormi

  P.S. What did you name me?

  I gently folded the note and opened my bed stand drawer, slipping it alongside ten other Stormi letters resting there. I pounded the wall, and enjoyed the throb in my hand.

  Dependable, caring, and concerned. All the things a mother should be.

  Again, I hit the wall, and felt a maternal ache.

  CHAPTER 7

  Two occasions typically animated the entire town of Gullary: funerals and the Fourth of July. This year, while one committee planned to celebrate the birth of our country, another, with equal fervor, planned to mourn the death of a gi
rl. The irony was not lost on anyone, and the town was buzzing.

  Yet something was lost: all talk of Hank the bus driver. For nearly forty years, he shuttled kids back and forth, safely running his daily routes. Three generations of residents had seen the inside of his bus. In life, he was an institution.

  In death, an afterthought.

  His quiet service in neighboring Waxton received little mention, even in the Gazette, the local paper quick to report every stubbed toe and skunk sighting. Gina’s photos filled its pages, even warranting a special memorial issue to honor “Gullary’s precious lost jewel.” This attention, of course, was due to her young age and her father’s status on the Circle.

  Dad was right. What the Circle wanted, the Circle got.

  But not Mr. Cartwright, not today, and it was easy to feel for the man.

  Gullary squeezed into the Baptist church, which seemed to please Deacon Holmes.

  “Welcome, welcome. So glad you’re here.” He worked the somber crowd in the foyer. “It’s so nice to gather, isn’t it?”

  For all the homage paid to Gina, there had been no wake, no open casket—no chance to say good-bye. Mr. Cartwright had not allowed it. Instead, he requested that the entire senior class receive special seating in the front two pews.

  Painfully hard, those forward pews. Pitched over in the packed second row, my bulging vertebrae knobbed against the straight oaken back. I scooted up an inch, giving in to my natural bend, and rested my forehead on the seat in front.

  Directly behind me sat the Pickerings, minus Stormi, of course. Ms. P and Connor seemed amazingly at peace, given they had no clue where Stormi had gone. Then again, Ms. P gave up on parental involvement long ago. Connor was proof of that.

  The church was thick and silent. The nasally organ that accompanied these affairs had also been nixed by Gina’s father. There were no whispers. No crying. Just the occasional cough or creak of wood.

  Mr. Cartwright seemed determined to put all of us through a near-death experience.

  On the casket rested one yellow rose, and beside it, in front of the stage, a large framed photo of Gina from seventh grade. She was smiling, without a care, her braces glinting. Gina never looked that good in real life.