Transcontinental

by Brad Cook

  Leroy plopped onto one of the unoccupied benches in front of the building, cursing medical confidentiality laws. The first thing he needed to do now was recall Ant’s last name. He couldn’t ask the front desk, but maybe he could try calling them and asking for him by his full, real name. The only way he could think of to verify his last name was checking his wallet, which would require going through his bag, which Leroy had no desire to do for various reasons. Although if it were to go toward Ant’s benefit…

  Leroy unzipped an outside pocket. Nothing. He checked the adjacent pocket, which was also empty. With a sigh, he grasped the zipper for the main section, then opened it, relieved to find Ant’s wallet in a compartment right inside the bag. Inside was a California driver’s license. Antoine Bevilacqua. He’d been close. On the right side was a professor’s ID for University of California, Davis. He stared hard at the thumbnail photo, that persistent smile eternally entrenched on Ant’s face, albeit clean shaven, bespectacled, and years younger. It was like a punch in the gut; for a moment, Leroy felt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. His breath came back, but the sorrow remained.

  He shut the wallet and returned it, then closed Ant’s bag. He’d gotten what he needed. Any more rummaging, and he’d be intruding.

  Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance’s siren sang.

  * * *

  “Hello,” Leroy said into the pay phone outside the hospital, affecting a deeper voice to sound older, “I’d like to speak to a patient, please.”

  “Okay, just for future reference I must inform you that the proper way to reach a patient is to dial the hospital, then the room number as an extension. Do you know the patient’s room number?”

  The voice, mild yet piercing, brought to mind a pair of honey brown eyes, and Leroy knew this wouldn’t work. “No, but I know the name.”

  “I do apologize, sir, but due to our confidentiality guidelines I cannot release a patient’s room number over the phone. If you are related to the patient, you may come into the hospital and provide photo identification, then we will direct you to his or her room.”

  Leroy had zoned out after she apologized. “Thanks,” he croaked.

  “Have a nice day, sir.”

  He waited for her to hang up, then placed the phone on the hook. An unintentional sigh blew through Leroy, then his eyes fixed on a phone book, encased in plastic and hanging from a chain. He couldn’t give up yet. He had to try at least one more.

  Thumbing through the H pages, he found hospitals. There were six. His heart sank. Ant could be at any of them. If the rest of them had the same confidentiality rules that Stormont-Vail did…

  Leroy was tired. Every cell in his body was fatigued.

  He wondered what Ant had said to Noah. Whatever it was, it had seemed to set him off. A twinge of rage rippled up Leroy’s spine. He couldn’t believe Ant would do this to him, leave him on his own. Just like everybody else, just like mom, dad, and Baron, Ant had left him on his own. Leroy had to go through all this unnecessary work just to figure out where Ant was because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.

  He realized he’d been clenching his fists, then relaxed them and took a deep breath, ashamed of his thoughts. Of course Ant hadn’t done it on purpose. Ant had been protecting him. His guilt provided a new source of motivation. If he just called every hospital, he was bound to find Ant. He could do this.

  He dialed the collect call extension he’d seen a million commercials for, then the top hospital on the list. A few rings later, a hispanic man’s leathery voice answered. “Saint Francis Health Center. How may I assist you today?”

  “Can you connect me to Antoine Bevilacqua’s room, please?”

  “Just a moment.”

  Leroy heard a click, and then a smooth jazz song as he was put on hold. His heart pounded. He couldn’t believe it—a simple rephrasing of the question and he’d gotten through. After all, he hadn’t asked for the room number. He gripped the phone.

  The jazz cut off.

  “Hello?”

  Leroy’s voice was caught in his throat.

  “Sir?”

  It was the hospital worker.

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “I apologize, but we don’t have a patient by that name.”

  It took a moment for that to set in.

  “Uh… okay. Thanks.”

  Four calls later, he’d been denied an answer twice, and the other two didn’t have Ant, either. That was all of the hospitals; there were private practices and specialists, but Leroy doubted Ant was in need of a dentist or a chiropractor.

  He leaned against the back of the pay phone and slid down into a sitting position. Short of sneaking into each hospital in the city, he had no idea how he could find Ant. He’d hit a brick wall.

  Leroy’s head lolled to the right, and the top of a stately building a couple blocks down the road caught his eye. It was a bronze dome, oxidized from years sunlight and humidity, that’d taken on a greenish-blue hue. He stood and hobbled toward it, as if drawn magnetically.

  The finer details of the structure came into view as he closed in on it: the Kansas Capitol building. Soon he stood on the long entry walkway, taking it all in. Grand columns loomed like sandstone guardians at the landing of the steps, protecting the entrance to a wide five story base, checkered with windows and topped with a octagonal tower that culminated in the dome. Antiquated, perhaps, but Leroy was impressed by the design. The lines of the building naturally drove his eyes upward, where the features grew softer and more rounded. There was a comforting balance, and a commanding sense of pomp that would’ve delighted him, were it not for his situation.

  And just like that, everything rushed back to him.

  * * *

  Leroy found himself back on the bench next to the capitol building’s fountain, two hours after he’d left it, with nothing to show but a slightly increased knowledge of the city’s layout. Along the way, he’d encountered a surprising number of homeless people, and realized with a sinking feeling that he, too, was technically homeless.

  His appetite hadn’t been ravenous, especially considering what he’d recently witnessed, but he stopped at McDonald’s for lunch anyway. They were offering walk-in job interviews. Maybe he could just flip burgers for a living. Even he couldn’t mess that up.

  Jets of water shot straight up, splaying into translucent bouquets before arcing down into the glistening pool below. He knew how the water felt, caught in a slow motion descent before inevitably rejoining what was left behind.

  It was starting to hit him that he might not find Ant, which turned his blood to a cold sludge that scraped through his veins. He bounced his foot and wrung his hands vigorously. His thoughts constantly drifted, scattered, only to remind him anew that something was wrong. Everything was wrong.

  He couldn’t imagine how bad it must be for Ant. He felt guilty for being depressed, which made him depressed further, inviting more guilt.

  Leroy held his head in his hands. He just wanted the day to end.

  Unfortunately, the sun stared down menacingly from above. Couldn’t be later than three o’clock, he estimated. Time didn’t really matter, anyway. Ant could be released right at that moment, twenty miles away, and Leroy would never know.

  Or, he could be dead.

  The thought splashed up from his subconscious and scorched a hole in his thoughts, leaving him feeling weak, mentally, physically, emotionally. Drained. Lethargic. Devoid of any clue how to proceed, and any motivation to discover one. He slumped on the bench.

  Then, a compulsion that outweighed his depression clutched him. Whether or not he found Ant, he needed a plan. What better time to hatch one? He had nothing else to do. He slipped the U.S. map out of his backpack and unfolded it on the stone bench. It was almost twice as big as the California map, so he had to kneel on the ground to make enough space.

  He peered at the tiny details of the map until he found Topeka, then pulled out a pen. Carefully, he set the ball-point on the dot,
then traced Interstate 70, rapt by the erratic curves. With unwavering focus and a steady hand he hadn’t known he was capable of, Leroy matched every millimeter of the road he’d have to travel to restart his journey.

  Eyes inches from the map, he stopped at St. Louis, Missouri, then purely on instinct, directed the pen south, along Interstate 55. For the first time in hours, his head was clear, his dread lessened. All that mattered was the line.

  The trail of ink swooped down through Memphis, then Mississippi and Louisiana almost to New Orleans. Leroy didn’t know what was guiding his hand, but he didn’t dare question it. From Louisiana, he followed Interstate 12 east, which turned into 10, until it hit 75 halfway across the Florida panhandle, which shot straight down to Tampa.

  Leroy pulled his face away from the map and regarded the route he’d drawn. It occurred to him that the roads he’d marked were just that—roads. He didn’t feel much like riding trains. But maybe it was time to loosen his self-imposed restrictions, take what he can get.

  The route looked pretty inefficient; he wondered why the interstate system wasn’t more uniform, why he couldn’t just take one road from Topeka to Tampa, but now wasn’t the time to ponder the philosophy of American highway network. That time had passed with Ant’s departure.

  With that thought, the guilt and depression came swarming back. It didn’t matter whose fault it was, though Leroy still squarely blamed himself. How could he trust himself, his judgement? Even if one day he and Ant had some sort of grand, improbable reunion, Leroy knew he would go to his grave with the knowledge that his poor decisions led to the incident. No matter what came next, he couldn’t change what had happened. That was the worst part. That was what ate him up inside.

  After a few tries, Leroy got the map folded up and put it back in his bag. He sized up the bench, then laid on his back, knees bent, bags interlocked with his crossed arms, and let his eyes close. He didn’t care that he was out in public, nor that it was the middle of the day. He couldn’t have cared if he tried.

  * * *

  It was pitch black. He ran, not feeling his ankle. He couldn’t feel anything, but he knew he was running. A familiar crunch with each step he took set him on edge. His breath lodged in his throat, choked up by a smoky, chemical scent that seemed to cloud in his lungs, and he was gravely certain of his location. He coughed and coughed, but still he ran.

  Muffled noises echoed in the darkness, until one rang out above them all: a train horn, hurtling through the tunnel like a contained explosion, headed right for him. He ran faster, harder, but he knew he couldn’t outrun a train. It was only a matter of time before it all went away, but still he ran.

  A light dragged around a corner from behind, then straightened and illuminated the path before him, casting a shadow that stood still, even though he was running. Outside the Leroy-shaped shadow, the light revealed a solitary train track amidst a tranquil, sunny day.

  He dashed toward the exit, the train’s horn swelling, growing deeper as it shook the walls of the tunnel. The light behind him brightened as he drew closer, almost close enough to touch the sunlight, then he was hit from behind and shoved through the exit with a pop.

  He tumbled to the ground without feeling, and laid on his back, catching his breath. His eyes lifted to where he’d come from, but there was no tunnel, no train; just a solitary railroad track. Relief washed over him, and he shut his eyes, though he was grateful for the sunlight.

  Crunch.

  The sound sent a shiver through him.

  Crunch.

  It was coming from beside him.

  Crunch.

  He was afraid to look. In a horrible instant, he realized what it was, and despite every intention to keep them closed, his eyes shot open wide and stared dead at it. He tried to look away, to look anywhere else, but his gaze was stuck.

  A man made of shadow straddled Ant’s body, methodically hacking away at what was left of Ant’s face with a nightstick, as if he were a robot. Crunch. Above the scattered teeth, the bone, the blood and muscle, the tatters of skin and cartilage, Ant’s still intact eyes darted, saucer-shaped with utter terror. Frenziedly, they searched, until Ant’s head slowly turned toward him, and their eyes met. He saw the stumps of Ant’s jaws trying to form sounds, let alone words, but a whistle-y gurgle was all that escaped.

  Crunch.

  * * *

  Leroy awakened with a start.

  “Christ on toast, finally,” a security guard with a thick voice said as he his pulled hand away after nudging Leroy. “I let you catch up on your beauty rest, now you gotta hit the road, buddy.”

  Disoriented, Leroy squinted as he glanced around at the buildings, the capitol dome, the fountains. Bad as his situation was, he was relieved to be awake. He twitched with a shudder. The vision of Ant’s mangled face haunted him.

  “You hear me?” the beefy guard intoned.

  Leroy swung his legs to the ground, shook his head to clear his thoughts, which didn’t work, then stood. “Yeah.” As he limped away from the bench, he saw the sun at half-mast. Just a few more hours and it’d be dark. After that dream, though, he had little interest in sleeping. He couldn’t win.

  Wandering down the road, all he could see was Ant’s face, as if it was burned into his thoughts. It set his head spinning. He glanced around, searching for something to take his mind off it. Down the road, a cluster of buildings, less uniform than the others, caught his eye. He headed their direction. Must be something to do there.

  As pain bit down on his ankle, he kept walking. His injury was so much less severe than what Ant had been dealt, he had no room to complain.

  Leroy was disappointed to find that the cluster of buildings was Washburn University. He’d never been to one before, but he doubted there was much for him to do. Still, there was plenty to look at. He walked on.

  The buildings weren’t particularly fascinating; many were plain utilitarian, with only windows to prevent them from being beige brick cubes. Others were topped with maroon or grey tiling that didn’t help much, either.

  He was beginning to regret his walk when he noticed the word ‘Art’ on a building across the street, and his heart jumped in his chest. The Mulvane Art Museum. On the lawn in front of it was a strange, chrome statue that bewildered Leroy, but the building was more beautiful than any other on campus. It looked like a patchwork quilt of stone, with three huge columns atop the front staircase. He hoped it was free to get in, until he remembered that he had money. Having money took some getting used to.

  Regardless, admission was free. Leroy was slightly taken aback when he entered, because it looked almost exactly like the art museums in cartoons he’d seen: hardwood floors, modern benches, white walls, and ceilings with track lighting. Pure and simple. He let out an emotionless chuckle.

  A smattering of people gazed at the vibrant attractions on the walls, ranging from tiny squares of paper to huge canvases with thick gold frames. Leroy was almost intimidated by the collection, as if each piece was further proof he had no place in the art world. He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know if he even wanted to.

  There were paintings of buildings, paintings of landscapes, paintings of shapes, paintings of fruit, and paintings of hardly anything. There were sculptures—strange colorful cups, freaky tribal heads, beautiful pottery. Each one sent a range of emotions flurrying through him. He supposed that was what made it worthy of an art museum.

  Leroy stopped in front of a painting of snowy mountains made of swirling strokes behind a wooded lake and a makeshift indian settlement, with plenty of horses. Lander’s Peak, by Albert Bierstadt. It was fascinating to see a piece with the same subjects Bob Ross often painted, executed in a different style. Where Bob used broad strokes to achieve a full image, this artist seemed obsessed with tiny details. And it paid off; the image exhilarated Leroy.

  Brian Slawson’s Kaw At Topeka was a gorgeously rendered painting of a cloudy peach sunset over a lake. Leroy was astounded by the ability to accuratel
y portray something so complex as the reflection of the setting sun on a body water. It seemed outside the range of human talent, although it clearly wasn’t. Outside the range of his talent, perhaps.

  Barbara Cleary’s two landscape pieces were closer to Bob Ross’s style, although much more grassy; they relied on thick brush strokes to impart the finer details. What Leroy found interesting about them was the dreamy sense of color, the bunches of wildflowers amongst the plush sea of green.

  The soft strokes lulled him into a daze that laughing children drew him out of. He turned toward an adjacent room to see a group of kids, mostly younger than him, going wild with paint at a small table. Half of them were painting on the table itself, yet the adult in the room just stood there, smiling.

  He’d painted a few times in art class, but only the simple exercises he’d been assigned. This was complete creative freedom, and it filled him with excitement. Leroy had always wanted to try out the techniques Bob taught on TV. He hoped he wasn’t too old to join the group.

  Standing outside the art lab’s open door, he knocked on the doorframe. The supervisor turned to him, friendly as Cleary’s wildflowers.

  “Hi, there.”

  “Ma’am, am I allowed to paint, or am I too old?”

  “You’re never too old to paint. Come on in.”

  * * *

  By the time the museum closed, Leroy had been the last one in the art lab for an hour. He’d gone through countless sheets of paper in pursuit of a decent painting. It was frustrating. It was tedious. But he reveled in it. He loved tweaking his method, changing his approach, figuring out through trial and error how things worked and how things could work. It’d take him years, but maybe he could paint a sunset over water.

  It was dark outside when he left. He could hardly believe it; time had flown by. In the light of the museum, he gazed once more at the crude mountain range on his paper, finally dry, then folded it and put it in his bag.

  Undistracted once again, his thoughts drifted to Ant, to his situation, and immediately he was sucked into an emotional sinkhole. All this waiting around was weighing him down. He’d lost sight of the overall goal—to find Rehema. But he couldn’t just leave Ant. Could he? He didn’t want to, but an increasingly loud nagging voice kept telling him he should.