Don't Kill The Messenger

by Joel Pierson

  I don’t respond, and the absence of a reply affects her. “What?” she says. “What is it?”

  I feel caught. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing. Did he say something to you? What did he tell you?”

  “Rebecca, it’s nothing, really.”

  “He told you what’s going to happen to me, didn’t he?” she guesses. “He couldn’t tell me, but he told you …”

  “No,” I reply quickly, and for the most part honestly. “He doesn’t know and I don’t know.”

  “If you do know, I want you to tell me. Even if it’s bad, I want to know. Promise me you’ll tell?”

  “I promise.”

  A familiar silence ensues for about ten minutes, but I start to feel guilty because of it, so I start up the conversation again. “So when did you change your name?”

  The question catches her off guard. “What are you talking about?”

  “At some time, you must have changed your name to Rebecca. I was just wondering when. And, you know … why.”

  “Why do you think I changed my name?”

  “I didn’t until today. When we boarded that boat, I told Stelios my name was Alex. I usually give a false name, to avoid complications. You decided to play along and you told him your name was Persephone. But when he saw through me, he started calling me Tristan. And to the end, he called you Persephone. So I have to think that it’s your real name, which is why he didn’t see through it.”

  I can see her working it out inside, considering whether she can make something up to cover for it, and then deciding that the truth is out. “On my eighteenth birthday. I was tired of my old name. And Rebecca was my middle name anyway, so I changed it legally.”

  “You were tired of your old name. That’s the only reason?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  She sounds defensive, and I don’t want to upset her. “Well, it’s just that a legal name change is a big step. Most people who don’t like their name just go by a nickname unofficially. I just wondered if there was something more that was motivating it. Some reason why Persephone wouldn’t want to be Persephone anymore?”

  She is silent, and I can’t tell why. Either I’ve offended her by asking because she was telling the truth or I’ve upset her by asking because there’s something more she isn’t telling me. Whichever the case, I won’t get anything else by prying, so I do the honorable thing … for a change.

  “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  The apology seems to disarm her a bit. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. We’re gonna be in this car together for a long time, and I should be friendlier. You want to know more about me; that’s natural. It’s just …”

  “Just?” I prompt.

  “What happens once we get to Ohio? After you drop me off? Are we going to be friends? Will we call each other? Send e-mails? Christmas cards? Or will you just drop me off and never see me again?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I hadn’t thought about it. This is all new terrain for me.”

  “Because …” she starts, “I feel like this is a big thing we’re going through together. You may have even saved my life, I don’t know. And I feel like that should make us … you know … friends. But that takes an investment of myself. And I’m not sure I’m ready to invest that, because I just don’t know where I stand with you, Tristan.”

  She has me dead to rights, and I have no defense. “Nobody does, Rebecca. You want to know the real me? That’s the real me. A man who’s been unable to have a meaningful relationship with anyone in years. Even before this whole crazy mission of mine started. Maybe that’s why I was chosen—somebody knew I wouldn’t be leaving anybody behind. You know the reason why I let you come along with me? Do you think it was because I was being nice? No. It’s because for a couple of days, I had the chance to interact with someone on a personal level. Someone pleasant. Someone … pretty. And now it seems that I couldn’t even do that right. Because you’re sitting there, and you don’t know what to make of me, just like the rest of the world.”

  In my peripheral vision, I see that she is looking intently at me as I look at the road ahead. I feel naked in front of the former stripper, and with each second that passes without a word spoken by Rebecca, I feel smaller and smaller. If she rejects me now, after opening myself up to her this way, I’m fairly certain I’ll vanish into a diminishing puddle of my own self-doubt.

  Just before that moment arrives, I hear her quietly utter: “I want to be your friend.”

  My difficult brain tries to invent other things I might have misheard her say, but I realize at once how unhelpful that is, and I am willing to accept that she may have actually said what I thought she said.

  Gracious, thoughtful people would respond, “Thank you.” I respond, “Why?”

  “Because you’re unexpected,” she replies directly. Curious response.

  “Unexpected like a bee sting?” I ask.

  “No, unexpected like a warm day in December, when you’re sick and tired of the cold. That’s what you are. You’re that warm day.”

  “I have no people skills,” I say apologetically. “I haven’t since this whole thing began two years ago. Now I travel around so much, and the nature of what I do is so isolating …”

  “You have no people skills because you have no people. Now you have a person. And I promise, when you act like a dick, I’ll gently let you know, so you can work on those skills.”

  A surprising amount of happiness is starting to well up inside of me. And I swear that I am on the verge of smiling broadly and saying something very kind and thoughtful to her. Unfortunately, at this precise moment, the universe chooses to fuck me once again.

  A wave of intense pain starts at the base of my spine and rockets up into my neck and my head. This is new, this is unique; I’ve never before gotten a message while I was behind the wheel of a car. My vision blurs, and my hands clutch the steering wheel so tightly, small rips appear in the vinyl under my fingernails.

  I am marginally aware that drivers around me are honking and swerving, trying to get out of my way as I try to get out of theirs. The message is coming in, loud, persistent, fast, detailed. But I can’t crash the car. I think Rebecca is calling my name. When I don’t respond, I feel her grip the wheel and pull us to the shoulder of Route 19. As the message plays out and the pain subsides, I feel the presence of mind to take my foot off the gas pedal and move it to the brake. Once we come to a complete stop, I put the Sebring in park, and sit there for a moment, gasping for breath.

  “So,” she says calmly, “where are we going this time?”

  I look at her, taken by her aplomb, while simultaneously terrified at how close I just came to crashing the car, and utter a single word: “Atlanta.”

  Chapter 6

  A few minutes later, I am able to continue. Rebecca decides that safety is more important than the rental company’s rules, so she takes the wheel as I rest up in the passenger’s seat.

  “So are you all right?” she asks as we continue north on Route 19. “Because that looked … shit, that looked pretty weird.”

  “You seemed calm at the time.”

  “I figure one of us had to be. Inside, I was scared. I didn’t know if you were gonna be able to keep control of the car. You didn’t tell me this could happen when you were driving.”

  “It never has before,” I tell her.

  “So why now?”

  “Urgency, I think. We don’t have much time to get there.”

  “Atlanta?” she says.

  “Atlanta.”

  “What’s the assignment?”

  I give her the details and she looks anxious. I’m feeling it too this time. If I’m right, there’s an awful lot at stake. “We have a little less than eight hour
s, and it’ll take almost that long to get there,” I inform her. “I want you to go no more than five over the speed limit.”

  “I can go twenty over if it’ll help.”

  “It won’t help us if we get pulled over. Keep it at five over and we should be fine.”

  “It’s weird,” she says, “it’s just weird. This is so last-minute. I mean, as important as this is, you’d think they’d give you more time … whoever the hell they are.”

  “The best I can figure, this situation just arose, and there wasn’t time to give me more warning.” I shake my head as my strength slowly returns to me. “Something feels wrong about this. I know this sounds crazy, but something just feels … different, and not in a good way.”

  “You’ve never done one like this before?”

  “Not exactly like this, no. Here, you’ll want to get on I-75 North here.”

  She takes the on-ramp to the interstate, and we quickly accelerate to seventy-five miles per hour. Finding the words, she poses a difficult question. “What happens to you … if you can’t help this person?”

  “As long as I try, nothing bad will happen to me. I can’t control whether they listen to my warning or not. If I refused to try … well, let’s just say it wouldn’t end well for me.”

  “Shit,” she says quietly.

  “Still want to be my friend?” I ask with a little laugh.

  Her answer is sincere and without hesitation. “Yes. Of course I do.” She almost sounds offended that I’d ask. “This is … Jesus, this is unique. Who else gets this opportunity? You’re the only one, right?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone else who does this, but there could be others. I just don’t know.”

  “I’ve never read about anyone doing this,” she says. “Never saw anybody on TV. This is such an amazing thing you do. Why don’t you tell the world about this?”

  “Rebecca, this is the age of reality television. The last thing I need for credibility is a camera crew following me around everywhere I go.”

  “Yeah, okay, I can see that.” A realization comes to her. “Does that mean I’m the only person you’ve trusted with this?”

  “Well, I have to give some detail to each person who gets a message, but you know more about it than anyone else.”

  “Does that make me your best friend?” she asks cheekily.

  “When you grabbed the steering wheel, did you keep me from plowing into oncoming traffic and killing us both?”

  “Well … yeah, I guess so.”

  “Then that makes you my best friend,” I answer.

  The hours of the afternoon speed by with the traffic on Interstate 75, as we make our way north from Florida into Georgia. After three uneventful hours with Rebecca behind the wheel, I feel well enough to resume the driving, so I thank her for the reprieve and take my traditional spot.

  We make excellent time, though it is at the cost of anything remotely resembling sightseeing. Several times, Rebecca sees roadside signs advertising Florida’s fun-filled attractions, and the look on her face must be a perfect replica of ones she displayed as a child on a family car trip, when Mom and Dad wouldn’t stop at Circus World or Cedar Point.

  Mom and Dad. Not a subject I’m likely to bring up in any hurry, since the mere mention of the pair yields instant introversion from my traveling companion. I don’t want to think the worst, but years of being me make me wonder if there are skeletons in the closet, mental demons that drove Persephone Traeger as far from her identity and her home as possible.

  She rouses me from my thoughts. “Do you have a nickname?”

  “A nickname?” I repeat.

  “Yeah. I mean Tristan is kind of a mouthful.”

  “This coming from Persephone?” I snicker.

  “Which is why I went by Rebecca,” she reminds me. “But I’m asking about you at the moment. So … nickname?”

  I think back on a life known more for solitude than socializing. “No, not really.”

  “Not even a shorter version of your name? Tris, or maybe Stan?”

  “Do I look like a Stan?”

  “No, not really. You look like Tristan. It’s such an unusual name.”

  “It’s Celtic,” I explain. “One of the knights of the Round Table. Tragic hero and all that.”

  She smiles. “That fits you. Knight errant, rescuing the damsel in distress.”

  “That would be you, I’m assuming?”

  “Naturally. So then your parents were big literature buffs, and you were named after this noble and tragic figure?”

  “Oh, I wish. The real story is even more tragic. Back in those days, there was a brand of Irish whiskey called Tristan O’Mara. Mom was a big fan. And that’s where my name comes from. Opinions are divided on whether her love of the beverage continued into her pregnancy, but let’s just say it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Shit,” she replies in an apologetic tone.

  “So, whatever you may feel about your parents, I’m guessing it’s a safe bet you weren’t named after booze.”

  “You should meet my brothers,” she answers. “Muscatel and Thunderbird.”

  “You are such a little liar,” I tell her, hiding my amusement.

  “Is that any way to talk to your best friend?”

  I have to laugh at that one. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

  We’re both silent for several seconds before she decides to ask me, “Are we going to be safe? What you told me about this assignment … it sounds dangerous. Will we be all right?”

  “There won’t be a we. I want you to drop me off and be far away from there. This could go very wrong, and if it does, I don’t want you anywhere near it.”

  “I can’t just leave you there by yourself …”

  “You forget: Before today, I did every one of these by myself.”

  “Yeah, but you told me you’ve never done one quite like this.”

  She argues well, I’ll give her that.

  “Rebecca … it’s very thoughtful of you to want to help me. Maybe even noble, I’m not sure. But the very real truth is, what I’m doing tonight is extremely dangerous, and I could never live with myself if anything happened to you.”

  “I can take care of myself, Tristan. I’ve been doing it for years.”

  I think back to Stelios’s warning—I might be the danger that Rebecca has to avoid. But then I remember his other warning: She needs you. And you need her … You will. Soon.

  Could Rebecca be the key to my surviving this assignment? Stelios seemed sure, and there is certainly no dissuading her from wanting to join me.

  “You can come with me,” I tell her, and before her reaction can escalate to full childlike glee, I tack on the conditions. “But I want you at a safe distance. I don’t want you by my side for this one. Five hundred feet away at least. Maybe more.”

  “Okay,” she says, “but close enough that I can come help you if you call.”

  “All right. Just, please don’t do anything risky. I know this all sounds very adventurous, but you have to believe me that I would give anything for this to be my last one. Never to have to do this again.”

  She absorbs the significance of that in silence. Maybe she has been romanticizing it a bit. And why not? On the surface it sounds glamorous and exciting, rushing in at the last moment to save people from a horrible fate. It’s an honor. Maybe I should feel honored, but I don’t. The first three or four times it happened, it was incredibly exhilarating. After that, it became a chore, then a duty, then a burden. It’s well on its way to curse. And tonight it may very well be the death of me. Thinking about it, maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to wish for this to be my last assignment. If it goes the way I think it will, that might just be the case.

  It’s a unique feeling, thinking that you may
not live to see the next day. As I make my way north to Atlanta, the thought is very much on my mind, and it is not pleasant. It might be different if you’ve been suffering from a horrible, painful disease for years, but when you’re relatively young and in good health, the possibility of not seeing tomorrow’s breakfast is laced with dread.

  The mind tries to temper the feeling by going over your life so far, pointing out all the good things you’ve done and the lives you’ve touched. But the thought of impending death keeps sneaking in, to undercut those achievements and taunt you with its …

  “What are you thinking?” Rebecca asks.

  For the record, I hate it when people ask me what I’m thinking. If I wanted them to know what I was thinking, I would be speaking instead. But the day has had some tense moments already, and this is no time to be unpleasant, so I simply say, “Nothing important,” though it couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Actually, Rebecca, I’m thinking that there’s a better than 50 percent chance that I’m going to be killed horribly tonight, and if I’m supremely unlucky, you will be too. On top of that, even if I do live to see tomorrow, I’m on a cross-country road trip with a woman who makes me feel uneasy, because I’m used to being alone. And I kind of like being alone, but now that you’re here, I realize how desperate and pathetic I feel for wanting to be alone, because you’re smart and friendly, and oh yeah, beautiful and young. But stray wildlife and homeless people and Greek fishermen are telling me I shouldn’t fall in love with you, which I could very easily do with little to no provocation. And in the part of my psyche that books all my travel arrangements to hell, I’m trying to figure out if there’s a loophole to the not-falling-in-love moratorium that would still let me fuck your brains out and just end up being pen pals.

  “Now why do I think you’re the one who’s lying?” she asks pleasantly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re psychic too.”

  “You think so?”

  “I was being facetious, but hey, why not?”

  “Maybe I am psychic. You know, sometimes I know who’s calling on the phone even before I pick it up.”