“I never said everything’d be great. I just feel better about myself when I try to do what’s right, that’s all.”
“See, that’s what I mean. Everything’s so straight and narrow for you. It’s like you were brainwashed by your parents or something, and now you believe all that goody-good-guy garbage. Things would look a lot different to you if everything weren’t so easy. I mean, nothing’s ever gone bad for you. Not really bad.”
It made me feel kind of insulted, him saying that. I could feel myself getting angry all over again. My first impulse was to argue with him. To tell him things weren’t easy for me all the time. I wanted to tell him about how my mom sometimes nagged me to death and my sister drove me crazy and my dad worked too much and how sometimes I worried about . . . oh, all kinds of stuff, a lot of stuff. Sometimes things weren’t easy at all. Luckily, though, I managed to pull off my now-famous keep-the-old-mouth-shut routine yet again. I had to eat my pride to do it this time, but I figured if I started arguing about me, then we’d never get around to talking about him. And I figured, the way things were going in his life, it was probably more important for us to talk about him. So I just said, “Okay,” and waited, driving under the trees and past the warm lights of the houses.
It worked. Alex went on, talking faster now, as if the words were just pouring out of him almost before he could think of them. “I mean, it’s easy to believe in things when everything’s going right, when you go home and your folks are there, and you don’t have to worry about where you’re gonna live or what you’re gonna eat or anything. Then it’s easy to say, Oh, work hard and pray to God and everything’ll be great. In this wonderful free country of ours, blah, blah, blah. But, I mean, what if all that stuff’s a lie, Charlie? You ever consider that? I mean, what if you come home one day and your dad’s gone—I mean, just gone, like he never even existed—or like being your dad didn’t mean anything to him? And you gotta listen to your mother crying in her bedroom all the time because she’s alone and she doesn’t have enough money and you don’t even know whether you’re gonna be able to stay in your crummy house. What good is working hard then, Charlie? What good is ‘America the Beautiful’? And where’s God—what’s he doing about it?”
“He’s still there, Alex,” I said quietly. “He’s right with you the whole way.”
“Oh, thanks a lot!” he snapped angrily. “What good does that do me? Huh? I mean, don’t you ever ask yourself: what if it’s all a lie? I have. Not just me either. A lot of people.”
“What do you mean? What’s all a lie?”
“Everything!” Alex was really worked up now. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, waving his hands around as he talked. “I mean, they tell you God is good and they tell you America is good and they tell you this is the way to live, free like this where you can do whatever you want . . . but what if that’s not true? What if none of it’s true? I mean, my dad did whatever he wanted. What’s so good about that? I mean, what if we need to tear it all down—all the religious stuff and the patriotism stuff and everything—and just start again in a new way, a stronger way?”
We were coming to the end of Oak Street. There was a park here. Just a small neighborhood place with a ball field and a picnic ground and a couple of tennis courts on the far side. It was empty now, the dark folding down over it. I could see little globes of white light shining where the park’s security lamps had come on.
I turned the corner and pulled the Explorer over to the curb. I stopped next to the park and turned the engine off. I could hear the quiet of the night falling outside. Crickets chirping out in the grass and the faint whisper of traffic over on 109.
I turned in my seat and faced Alex. “All right. What are you talking about? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Alex’s hands moved around as he tried to explain. Even in the growing dark, I could see the pain in his face.
“I’m talking about being lied to! I’m talking about . . . everything you thought was true turning out to be a lie and . . . and about changing everything so it’s better!”
“Look, I know things are hard with your folks breaking up, but . . .”
“It’s not that! It’s not just that. It’s not just me, Charlie. There’s a lot of people—good people, smart people— who say the same thing.”
I shook my head a little, confused. “What people? Who? Who are you talking to?”
“Well . . .” His mouth moved as if he wanted to say more, but no words came out. “Just people, that’s all. I mean, you listen to people, right? You’re always telling me what your dad says, or what your minister says, or . . . Sensei Mike—man, you never stop talking about him.”
“Okay, sure,” I said. “I mean, you gotta find people in the world you trust, right? People who know more than you and will tell it to you straight and help you out. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing! Nothing! That’s just what I’m talking about. That’s just what I’m saying: maybe I have people in my life who see through all this stuff, you know?”
“All this . . . ?”
“All this rah-rah for God and school and home and America. Maybe I have people I trust who know better than all that.”
I let out a long breath. I ran my hand up through my hair. Man, poor Alex, I was thinking. He is way messed up. Way.
“All right,” I said—trying not to sound like I was arguing with him, keeping my voice really quiet. “Look. I’m not gonna tell you I know what you’re going through.”
“You don’t!”
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t. And maybe you’re even right about things being easy for me. I mean, I’ve got my problems like everybody, but at least my mom and dad are at home and I’m not worrying about where I’ll live and all that . . .”
“Right!” Alex drove his fist down onto his knee. “Right.”
“But look at it from the other direction, okay? Maybe with you being upset about things and all . . .”
“I’m not upset,” he said, upset.
“All right, all right. But maybe, with the way your life is going right now and the way you’re feeling about things—maybe you’re not thinking so clearly. You ever consider that? I mean, like, maybe you’re so ticked off about everything that you’re not picking your friends too well right now. You see what I mean?”
He didn’t answer. He sat in the dark looking down at his lap, shaking his head back and forth, shaking and shaking it as if he didn’t want to hear me out.
“I mean . . .” I looked around for an example to explain what I was trying to say. “What if you lost a ball game, right? A really big game, you know, so you felt really bad. And you’re sitting there on the bench with your head hanging down to your knees, right? And people start coming up to you and saying things like, What’re you playing this stupid game for anyway? Look how bad it makes you feel. Just give it up, man, you know. All that working out and training—you don’t need that stuff. You could just go to the mall and have a beer instead. It’s just a dumb game anyway, right? And so on, like that. Those people saying that stuff—would they be your friends, Alex? Would they be your real friends? Or is your friend the coach—you know, like, even big dumb Coach Friedman—who’d come over and say to you, Hey, I know how tough that was. I been there, but now you gotta work out even more and train even harder and become even better so you’re ready to try again.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alex just went on shaking and shaking his head. His voice was a low growl. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I sighed. “Look—I’m not saying I know. I’m just trying to figure out what makes sense. I mean, your folks broke up—that happens to a lot of people.”
“That doesn’t make it any better. People keep saying that. That doesn’t make it better.”
“I know. But here you are, you’re feeling really bad, you’re feeling down, and I’m asking you: Who’re your friends now, Alex? Are they these people
who are saying to you, Hey, things are going bad and you feel bad so you should give up on everything you know is good and true? Or is your real friend that other voice that’s, like, talking inside you . . .”
“Shut up!”
It was like a punch the way he said it. The way he turned to me suddenly with his eyes so bright and furious that they seemed to glow in the dark of the car. It was the tears that made his eyes look like that. The tears in his eyes caught the glow of a streetlamp and reflected it at me.
Alex sneered. “What do you know about what’s going on inside me? There’s no voice inside me. There’s nothing! There’s nobody! That’s the whole point.”
I reached over to give him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Man . . .”
“No!” He slapped my hand away. “I’ve had enough of all these . . . lies! Don’t give up! Trust in God! Get up and try again! What for? Why is it all on me? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t leave anybody.”
“Nobody’s blaming you. I’m just saying . . .”
“I know what you’re saying! I know what everybody’s saying!” He was really yelling now, really loud. A woman walking her dog on the opposite sidewalk actually turned and looked our way—that’s how loud he was yelling. “And I’m sick of it! You understand me? You and Beth and my father and everybody! I’m just sick of all of you!”
“Come on, man, chill out . . .”
He shoved me—hard—hit me in the shoulder with his open hand. He let out an ugly curse and pushed the door open. He was so furious it took him three tries to get the handle working, and then he kicked it in a rage. He jumped out of the car. He started stalking away from me into the park.
I climbed out of the driver’s seat.
“Hey, Alex, come on . . .”
By the time I came around the hood, he was already striding across the grass, his figure getting dimmer and dimmer as the darkness of the park closed over him.
“Alex!” I shouted.
I ran a few steps after him into that darkness. I guess he heard me coming because he wheeled around. He pointed his finger at me. “Just stay away from me!” he shouted. “You’re not the only one who knows how to fight! Next time I won’t be so easy on you!”
Then he turned and started jogging away from me toward the tennis courts.
What could I do? I stood where I was and watched him go.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Cave
I opened my eyes and a jolt of terror shot through me. I couldn’t see. Where was I? What was happening?
I had fallen asleep—I had no idea for how long. And when I came to—before I remembered where I was or even who I was—I could see nothing, absolutely nothing. It was as if I had gone blind.
Then I remembered. The torture room. My escape from the compound. The woods. The cave.
I was still in the cave. I had escaped the guards and fallen deeper underground. That’s why I couldn’t see, why the darkness around me was so complete.
As soon as it came back to me, the terror I felt was replaced by another kind of fear—a low, pervasive, sickening despair. How was I going to get out of here? What was I going to do now?
I sat up slowly. It hurt. Oh yeah, I remembered the pain too. The cuts and sores and bruises all over me, the ache all through me. Swallowing hard, I passed my hands over myself, checking the damage. I felt sore spots and frightening damp patches that might have been blood. But at least it didn’t seem as if anything was broken.
My hand stopped at my belt when I felt the gun. Now I remembered that too.
I reached down and felt the space around me. Stone: slick, cold, and damp. I moved my hand and felt a small puddle of water. I scooped some up and splashed it into my mouth. It tasted metallic, but it eased my thirst.
I reached out until I felt a wall of stone. Slowly, holding on to the wall, I stood up. I felt wobbly. My legs felt weak. I leaned against the wall.
Now what? I was afraid to move. It was so utterly, so completely dark, there could’ve been an open pit in front of me and I never would’ve seen it. I could’ve taken one step and dropped into nothingness, a longer fall this time that would’ve really busted me to pieces. I could see myself lying broken and immobile in the blackness with no one to hear me screaming for help.
These and other images kept flashing in my mind as the scattered memories came back to me. The torture chair and the thugs with the acid syringe. My karate demonstration at school. Grabbing the rat-faced guy by the throat and running down the cinder block hallway, running for the black square that was the window. Talking to Beth in the cafeteria. Arguing with Alex in my mom’s car. Stealing the truck to break out of the compound. The truck turning over. Grabbing the gun from the driver . . .
I caught my breath. There was something else I remembered now. Quickly, my hand went to my pants pocket. Yes, I felt it there. I reached inside and pulled it out: the keychain. The truck driver’s keychain. I had taken it from the ignition to keep the bad guys from using the truck. Before I’d shoved it in my pocket, I had noticed it had a flashlight on it.
No matter how close I held the keychain to my face I couldn’t see it, not even a little. I had to feel my way blindly along the shape of the keys, seeking out the flashlight. I moved my fingers carefully, resisting the urge to hurry. A frantic voice kept whispering in my head: Don’t drop it, don’t drop it! In this darkness, if I dropped the thing, there was no guarantee I would find it again.
But now, I felt it: the flashlight. My fingers made out its shape. I pressed the button. Hope sent my heart pounding wildly as a thin beam of white light shot blessedly through the dark. I shone it briefly around what turned out to be a small cave chamber. Then I pointed it up, looking for the place from which I’d fallen.
The hope in me died. I saw a slick, featureless slope of rock, too steep to climb without a rope. The narrow space through which I’d crawled was out of reach at the top of it. I could not get out the way I’d come in.
I scanned the light around the chamber again. There was only one other exit: a passage through the rock into more darkness. Everything inside me rebelled at the idea of going farther into the cave, moving away from the light and the air, dropping deeper into the earth.
But what choice did I have?
Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t leave the flashlight on. I had to preserve the battery. For another moment or two, I let the light play over the entrance to the underground corridor, trying to memorize the path between the rocks that would get me there. Then, reluctantly, I released the button. The flashlight’s beam vanished and the darkness was instantly complete again.
I began to edge forward, feeling my way along the wall of stone, trying to remember the path I’d seen in the light. Blind, utterly blind, I didn’t dare to lift my feet, but shuffled slow-by-slow like an old, old man. Stubbing my toe on rocks, I felt my way around them. Now and then, I would shine the flashlight to see how far I’d come.
I reached the entrance to the corridor. I moved into it. Step by shuffling step, I made my way. Every few minutes, I would lift the flashlight again. Pierce the blackness with that narrow beam. I would memorize the next few steps and make sure there were no gaps or obstacles in my way. Then I would let the light die and shuffle forward, one hand clinging to the corridor wall.
I went on like that a long, long time. It seemed long, anyway. My clothes were damp and the cave was cold, and soon I was shivering, my teeth chattering. I had to force my mind away from the cold and from the pain all over my body—and from the hunger, too, sharp pangs of hunger that were now beginning to eat at my belly and make me weak.
Just concentrate on the movement, I told myself, shivering. Keep going. Never give in. But as I edged deeper and deeper into that suffocating blackness, I heard another voice inside. Alex’s voice. It came to me as if from the heart of the darkness, a furious, sizzling whisper: It’s all a lie. There’s no hope. There’s no sense trying. You’re going to die down here, Charlie—down here in the dark where th
ey’ll never even find your corpse!
Gritting my teeth, I forced Alex’s voice into silence. I stopped again to scan the area with the flashlight. My hands were shaking so badly now I could hardly hold the keychain, even using both hands. My thumb rested on the button . . .
Then the flashlight slipped out of my grip!
It was an awful moment. So much had happened to me that day—the torture chair and the fear and the gunfire—but this was as bad as any of it. I heard the keychain hit the stone at my feet. Panicked, I crouched down after it. I moved my hand frantically over the stone floor. I couldn’t find it. I could hear myself making a horrible whimpering noise. I didn’t mean to, but it just came out of me.
“Please, please, please,” I was saying.
Then there it was! I grabbed hold of the keychain as if it were a raft in the middle of the ocean. I stood up, trembling even worse than before, gripping that flashlight in my fist for dear life. For a long minute, I was afraid even to try again to find the button.
But I had to. I was completely disoriented now. I had no idea which direction to move in. Carefully—so carefully— I moved my thumb back to the flashlight button. I pressed it and shone the light in the dark.
I swallowed hard at what I saw. The corridor was narrowing down to nothing in front of me. No, not quite nothing. There was still a passage through the stone, but it was so tight I wasn’t sure I could fit into it. And if I did fit into it, I wasn’t sure I would be able to get out again.
But there was no hope behind me, so I had to go on. So I did.
I kept shuffling forward along the corridor, feeling the walls of it closing and closing on either side of me. Then I reached that narrow crevice. I put the flashlight into my pocket for safekeeping. I put my shoulder to the crevice opening. I squeezed my way in.
It was suffocating—almost unbearable. The rock walls pressed tight against my back and my face. I slid myself in farther, and with every inch I moved, the space got tighter. Soon I was gasping for breath as jutting rock pressed against my abdomen. It took an effort of both strength and willpower to keep cramming myself through the narrow space.
The Last Thing I Remember Page 10