The Driving Lesson

by Ben Rehder

  Michele dropped her keys and phone on a little table and proceeded down a hallway to the left. I followed her. I wanted to get back to the motel quickly, even though I’d gone back into the room and left a note for Opa before we left. I’d told him not to call anyone, because I might have a solution, and I’d tell him more when I got back.

  “My parents’ room is back here.”

  She turned into a room on the right and flipped the light on. The room was nice and neat, with the bed made. But it wasn’t like she was giving me a tour. She went straight into the bathroom and started opening some drawers under the vanity. She found a brown prescription bottle, checked the label, then put it back. Then did the same thing with another one.

  “I know he’ll have some pills around here somewhere. My mom insists on keeping some around, because when his back gives him trouble, he can be a real you-know-what.”

  I would only need a few pills. Just two or three. Enough to get Opa to Seattle. And if there were enough pills in the bottle, Michele’s dad might not notice that any were missing, so she wouldn’t get into trouble.

  She opened another drawer. No prescriptions there. The bottom drawer. Nothing. The medicine cabinet. Zilch. I was amazed at how boldly she was rooting around in her parents’ stuff. She didn’t even seem all that concerned with putting everything back just the way it was. She exited the bathroom and went to the nightstand on the right side of the bed. Only one drawer to explore. No medicine. She circled to the nightstand on the other side. Goose egg.

  “Well, fudge,” she said. She had her hands on her hips and her bottom lip stuck out, thinking. It was very cute. She was still wearing her bikini top and those white shorts. I was having a tough time keeping my eyes off of her. And she caught me. She caught me checking out various parts that I shouldn’t have been looking at. Wait, that’s not exactly true. It’s only natural to look at those parts, but it’s smart to show a little discretion. That means be respectful and only sneak a peek when you can get away with it. Don’t ogle, which is what I was doing before I finally looked up and —

  She’d been watching me. She knew where my eyes had been. Still, she smiled. Her dimples were spectacular.

  “Hey, guy. I need you to focus,” she said.

  I had been focusing. That was the problem.

  “It’s okay if you can’t find them,” I said.

  “I’m not giving up yet.”

  And she didn’t. She searched the kitchen, the guest bathroom, the living room, her brother’s old room, even the garage. I just followed her around, hoping she’d have some luck. But it was obvious that she was running out of places to look. And I was wishing that I hadn’t said anything promising in the note I’d left for Opa.

  Finally, she plopped down on the couch in the living room and I did the same.

  “I’m really sorry, Chuck.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was a good idea. Thanks for trying.”

  “I know they’re here somewhere, I just don’t know where.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You know, I think it’s really sweet what you’re doing for your grandfather. For your Opa. I wish I could help.”

  She turned her head toward me, then put her hand on the couch between us with her palm upward. It was obvious what she wanted. I reached out and clasped her hand in mine. I could feel my heart beating heavily. Something good was about to happen. It reminded me of last summer, in the pool, with that other girl whose name I couldn’t recall at the moment. What was it with me and girls and swimming pools? Would my good luck extend to rivers and lakes and creeks? Why was I wondering about stuff like that right now?

  I began to lean toward her. Other thoughts were going through my head. How was my breath? Do Mormons kiss differently than other people? Is it wrong to kiss a girl when you don’t even know her last name?

  I was just inches away — even had my eyes closed — when she said, “Wait!”

  I stopped. Extreme bummer. Maybe I’d misinterpreted the situation.

  “My dad went to Provo to see my brother last weekend!” she said, and she sprang from the couch and hurried down the hallway again.

  What the heck? What did that have to do with anything? I reluctantly rose from the couch and followed her. She was in her parents’ bedroom again, kneeling, reaching under the bed. She dragged out a black suitcase and started going through the various pockets and compartments. Now I understood. A man with a back problem would take his pills with him when he traveled.

  Michele began tossing things to the side — a pair of socks, a belt, a paperback novel. Her dad wasn’t much of an unpacker. Then she held up a small leather pouch. His shaving kit, which looked a lot like Opa’s.

  She unzipped it and immediately said, “Yes!” She reached in and came out with another prescription bottle. Checked the label and said, “Score!”

  This was the best of all possible developments, and I’m not lying when I say I was very happy about it, but as silly as it sounds, I was also still thinking about that moment on the couch. I still wanted to kiss her. And maybe I’d get the chance. Maybe, after we celebrated about her success, we’d pick up where we’d left off.

  That’s when I heard a sound. A deep, mechanical groaning from the other side of the house. I recognized it, of course. A garage door was going up.

  Michele’s eyes went wide. “My mom’s home!”

  I could describe my disappointment, and my sudden panic at the thought of getting caught in the house by an angry mother, but I’ll make a long story short: Michele shoved the prescription bottle into my hand and hustled me out the back door — yes, I was sneaking out another back door — with the quickest of goodbyes. No kiss. No swapping phone numbers. Not even a handshake.

  13

  If Mr. Gardner’s name seems to be coming up a lot, that’s because he was my favorite teacher. He made freshman English fun, and I can still remember one particular class discussion we had about irony. He said it can be one of the most powerful literary techniques a writer can use, and his favorite story involving irony was “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry.

  What happens is, a young married couple doesn’t have enough money to buy Christmas gifts. But the woman has this really long, beautiful hair, so she cuts it off and sells it to a wigmaker. Then she uses the money to buy her husband a chain for his pocket watch, which has been in his family for generations. Nice of her, huh? What she doesn’t know is that he sold the watch to buy a cool set of combs for her hair. It’s supposed to show the sacrifices they are willing to make for each other, but they both end up with gifts they have no use for, which is pretty darned ironic.

  Here’s something else ironic: It turned out that the lowlife scumbag slime ball who’d stolen our things had also done us a huge favor. Not on purpose, of course, and it didn’t work out well for him at all, which made it even more ironic. Less than three hours after the jerk had taken our things, he’d already been arrested. How did I know this? While I was following Michele around as she searched her house, the arrest was making the national news.

  When I got back to the motel, Opa was awake in bed, propped up by pillows, watching TV. It was still very cold in the room. Before I could even say anything, he held up a hand in a wait-a-minute gesture. For a second, I thought he had a grimace on his face, but then I realized it was an amused smirk, like he’d just heard a good joke. I closed the door behind me and sat on the edge of my bed, facing the TV. Rudi Villarreal was sharing a breaking story on CNN’s Headline News.

  I should stop right here and mention something. If adults want to find a way to get teenage boys interested in world events, hiring a news anchor who looks like Rudi Villarreal is a good start. Compared to some of those old dudes that used to be on 60 Minutes, which my parents watch every Sunday, it’s no contest. Regardless, I quickly forgot about Rudi Villarreal’s appearance when I tuned in to the actual words coming out of her mouth.

  “...a strange twist in the case of Henry and Charlie Dunbar, t
he grandfather and grandson who were first reported missing from Abilene, Texas, on Tuesday. Those of you following this story know that Henry Dunbar suffers from a terminal illness and is presumed to be traveling to Washington or Oregon to take advantage of those states’ laws regarding physician-assisted suicide. Authorities are now saying that they were able to track a cell phone purchased by Henry Dunbar to Grand Canyon National Park, where it was used yesterday morning.”

  I began to put the pieces together. Opa and I had been smart enough to stop using his credit card, but it hadn’t occurred to us that we shouldn’t use the cell phones we’d bought with that card. It was so obvious now. Once the cops knew what we’d bought, it would be easy for them to figure out where and when the phone was used. So even though I’d learned a lot when I’d made that call to listen to Ranger David, the cops had learned a lot, too. Like our exact location. Those old ladies at the Grand Canyon were the least of our worries.

  I returned my attention to the story. Now CNN was showing a clip of a familiar gray-haired man in a suit, with his name and title on the screen. It was our old friend Walter Hoggins, the chief of police in Abilene. He said, “We were able to track this particular phone up the interstate from Arizona into Utah, and the Salt Lake City police arrested an individual in possession of the phone this morning. His name is Steven Lee Dabbs and he appears to have no knowledge of the Dunbars or their whereabouts. Unfortunately, Mr. Dabbs has asked for an attorney and won’t tell us how he came into possession of the phone. He’ll be arraigned in the morning, and then we might be able to cut some sort of deal with him.”

  Now they switched back to Rudi Villarreal, who said, “Police Chief Hoggins later clarified that Dabbs has been arrested for drug possession in violation of a probated sentence on a previous conviction for burglary.” She gave her viewers a very small but unmistakably playful smile. “As to the whereabouts of Henry Dunbar and his grandson Charlie, their current location is anybody’s guess.”

  I looked at Opa and saw that he was still grinning. He said, “That’s the third time they’ve run that report and I like it better each time. That’ll teach him to steal from the Dunbars.”

  I thought it was great, that the thief got nailed, but I was also concerned about something. “Did you hear what the police chief said?”

  “Which part?”

  “He said they tracked the phone from Arizona to Utah.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I only used the phone one time, at the Grand Canyon. If they were able to track it while we were traveling, that means you don’t even have to use the phone for them to know where it is.”

  Opa nodded. “It probably only has to be turned on. I believe it bounces a signal off each tower as you pass by.”

  We both looked at his suitcase at the same time. His phone was in the suitcase.

  “Relax,” he said. “I haven’t even taken it out of the package.”

  “You sure it has to be turned on?”

  “Pretty sure. If it didn’t, they’d be knocking on our door by now, wouldn’t they?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “See there, Bud? You were moping around because you left the car door unlocked. Turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Goes to show you never know how these things will work out.”

  Opa looked and sounded better than he had this morning. Maybe the sleep had helped him out, or maybe that pain pill from his shaving kit was still working. Or maybe the pain had gone away on its own. Yesterday, in the car, Opa had said there were highs and lows. Maybe the pain would be back in thirty minutes or an hour.

  I remembered the prescription bottle in the pocket of my cargo shorts. I took them out and handed them to him. He looked at the label for about ten seconds, then he looked at me.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “Remember that girl I told you about?”

  “The one by the pool.”

  “Yeah. She had them at her house. She took me over there. It’s right down the street.”

  “Whose are they? Who is Donald Macon?”

  “Her dad. He has a bad back. It’s not the same medicine you take, but I bet it’ll work.”

  He set the bottle on the nightstand and turned the volume down on the TV. “But how did she know I needed painkillers?”

  “When I went back outside, she called me over to the pool. I thought she was just being friendly, but she recognized me from the news. She was cool about it, though. She’s not going to tell anyone. Anyway, we started talking, and I told her what was happening. That the trip was over because your medicine was gone.”

  “Whose idea was it to steal her dad’s prescription?”

  Steal? Was that really the right word, considering the circumstances? Heck, the man’s own daughter had come up with the idea.

  “Hers. We didn’t steal it. She gave it to me.”

  “You didn’t have a problem with that? The prescription wasn’t hers to give.”

  Uh-oh. Here we go.

  “Her dad can get a refill. You need this medicine a lot more than he does. Besides, it had been sitting in his suitcase since last weekend, so he doesn’t even need it right now.”

  “That’s rationalizing, Bud. You know what that word means?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’re coming up with excuses to justify bad behavior.”

  That didn’t seem fair to me. “If taking the pills was wrong, why is it okay for us to be here, right now, when everyone is looking for us? What we’re doing — this whole trip — why isn’t that bad behavior?”

  “Some people, maybe a lot of people, would say that it is. But I don’t happen to be one of those people.”

  “Well, who’s to say you aren’t rationalizing?”

  He considered my question for a moment, then said, “Each person has to make up his or her own mind about something like that. And those pills. Let’s say you’re a medical researcher and you come up with a cure for a disease. All it takes is one little pill and people are healed instantly. But you’re also a little bit greedy, so you want a bunch of money for each pill, even though it doesn’t cost much to produce. Poor people are dying, but you’re not too worried about that, because you think you deserve to be paid. So here’s the question: Would it be okay for someone to break into your lab, steal the pills, and hand them out to the sick people?”

  It seemed like an easy question. “I think so, yeah. Because I’m being selfish while people are dying, so it’s okay, right?”

  “I can’t answer that for you. You have to decide that for yourself.”

  “So there isn’t a right answer?”

  “Well, I think there’s a right answer, and you obviously do, too. But lots of people would disagree with us, and they are equally sure they’re right. They would say the researcher’s ambition and desire to make some money were what drove him to develop the medicine in the first place. Without that profit motive, the medicine wouldn’t even exist. Then nobody could be healed.”

  Well, crap. I hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “This isn’t a new conundrum,” Opa said. “People have been debating this sort of thing for centuries. But now think of this situation. You’re one of the people who needs that pill. But your neighbor does too, and he can’t afford one, so he takes yours. Is he wrong to do that?”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I needed the pill as much as he did.”

  “What if you’re eighty years old and he’s only twenty, so he has a lot more to gain by taking the pill?”

  I didn’t know what to say about that.

  “Not always easy, is it?” Opa asked.

  “It’s still my pill. By stealing my pill, he’s taking my life.”

  “For the record, I agree with you. On the other hand, what you said earlier — that I need the medicine more than this girl’s dad does — you can’t be sure that’s true.”

  “But you’re — ” I stopped. I was going to say, But you
’re dying. I didn’t want to think about that right now, and I doubted Opa would think that was a good reason for taking Donald Macon’s pills. “But all he has is a bad back,” I said instead.

  “And it could give him every bit as much pain as my condition. Maybe more.”

  I was tired of talking about it. Regardless of where I’d gotten the pills, they were the answer to our problem. They would allow us to finish the trip. Why couldn’t he see that?

  “So what’re we gonna do?” I asked.

  He handed the prescription bottle to me. “I appreciate what you did, Bud. I really do. But you need to take those back. Tell your friend I said thank you, but I can’t take those. Even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t be smart for me to take something that wasn’t prescribed for me. It might even be dangerous.”

  “Fine. I understand. But then what? We’re just going to give up?” He started to answer, but I kept talking. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Don’t worry about what I’ll have to see or whether you think that’s fair. Okay? How about you let me make that call? And as far as I’m concerned, I still want to take you to Seattle. So don’t even factor that into your decision. As long as you still want a driver, I’m here, and I want to be here. I’ll understand if you just don’t feel good enough to continue, but if you quit because you’re worried about me — ”

  His hand went up again. I guess I’d made my point, so I shut up. Finally, the air conditioner cut off, and it was suddenly very quiet in the room.

  Opa said, “The truth is, I go back and forth on this. I worry that I made a tremendous mistake by bringing you on this trip. You’re just a kid, Bud. A smart kid, yeah, and not a kid for much longer, but right now, you’re still a kid. On the other hand — I don’t know if I should even get into this, but I will — I worry that your parents don’t give you quite enough freedom to make up your own mind about some things. To think for yourself. I can’t tell you how wrong I think that is.”