Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  I always knew being a year behind Laura in school would suck—the senior spring break that so predictably blew up in my face, the long trek toward our inevitable goodbye, the tedious vetting of colleges. But I play along, for her.

  “Earlham still the backup plan?” I ask.

  Laura forces a half grin. “I suppose. Everything’s ready. Got my housing and courses lined up. What about you?”

  “College? It’s way too soon for me to be thinking—”

  “No, silly. Did you hear from Hoosier Boys State?”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I heard from them.”

  “And?”

  “And I got in.”

  Laura kisses me on the lips, tells me how proud she is of me. I don’t get it. Mom just told me it would look good on my college application, so I applied and got accepted. The local Rotary Club is picking up my tab. “‘Hoosier Boys State is a week-long learning experience in the operation of our democratic form of government, the organization of a political party, and the practical application of the knowledge gained from both,’” Mom read from the brochure. She told me, “Senator Birch Bayh, Congressman Lee Hamilton, Senator Dick Lugar, and Terry Lester all attended Hoosier Boys State,” and I acted impressed. Well, Terry Lester is impressive. He originated the role of Jack Abbott on The Young and the Restless. Uncle Mitch went to college with Terry at Indiana Central. I wonder if Terry ever shared his dreams with Uncle Mitch of being the heir to a pretend cosmetics conglomerate. I wonder if Uncle Mitch ever shared his dreams with Terry of touching little boys’ peckers.

  “When do you go?”

  “Second week in July.”

  “That’s not that far away.”

  “Nope. And my family’s in Hilton Head for the Fourth.”

  Laura pouts. “We’ll hardly get to see each other. If I somehow manage to get into Bucknell, I could leave as early as August. That sucks.”

  I reach over and rub her arm. “Let’s not get all stressed out. How about we agree to just make the most of the summer we have together, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I pick the jalapeno off the lone nacho left on the plate and pop it in my mouth. I hand the chip to Laura. “Last one’s yours.”

  “For me? You shouldn’t have.” She cranes her neck, grabs the chip out of my hand…with her mouth.

  “You know, Laura, this might all work out for the better.”

  “What might all work out?”

  “College.”

  “You think I still got a chance with Bucknell?”

  “Maybe, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, Bucknell is in east central Pennsylvania. And Earlham is in east central Indiana. By my rough estimate, Earlham is four hundred sixty-two point two-three miles closer to my house than Bucknell.”

  She purses her lips into a smile. “By your rough estimate?”

  “Very rough.”

  “Four hundred and sixty-two…”

  “Point-two-three.”

  “Point-two-three, of course.”

  A pause.

  The tapping of Laura’s bare feet on the leg of her chair.

  She lunges across the table, reaches behind my head and grabs me by my hair. She kisses me. Her kiss starts rough, finishing soft. We separate. She takes my hand. Halfway down the hallway, she unfastens her bikini top and lets it drop to the ground.

  Chapter seventeen

  Laura meets me at the front door of her house. I’m just back from Hilton Head. We haven’t seen one another in ten days, our longest time apart since we got back together.

  “Heeey, you.” Laura yawns.

  I give her a hug. “Don’t act so excited to see me.”

  “I was napping.” She backs away, leading me into her house. “How was Hilton Head?”

  “Before or after I wrecked the van?”

  “You got in another accident?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it a full-fledged accident. The other car was stationary and unoccupied.”

  “What happened?”

  “I cut a corner too tight backing out of a parking space, peeled the side off a Ford Taurus station wagon.”

  “What about the van?”

  “Just a scratch.”

  “And by ‘scratch’ you mean?”

  “A gaping wound about three inches wide running the full length of the van.”

  “Your dad had to be pissed off at you.”

  “Pissed off for sure, but not at me.”

  “How’d you talk your way out of that one?”

  “I lied, said I was a victim of a hit and run in the Winn Dixie parking lot.”

  “Hank, you didn’t.”

  “It was only a half lie. There was a hit and run in the Winn Dixie parking lot. I just left out the part about me doing the hitting and the running.”

  “Someday someone’s going to see through your bullshit.”

  “Probably, but enough about me. You ready to go?”

  Some of Laura’s friends, seniors mostly, are throwing a party tonight. She disappears into the bathroom. “Just give me a few minutes to freshen up.”

  Laura takes a lot longer than a few minutes. She emerges from the bathroom, still a little bleary-eyed. Her hair is a couple days removed from its last shampoo. She has on a baggy sweatshirt and wrinkled shorts. She looks ragged.

  “You okay, honey?” I ask.

  Her smile is more rehearsed than genuine. “Never been better.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Hank.”

  As forced and ordinary as these words sound, they ease my anxiety. Or at least I pretend they do. We walk outside. “You want me to drive?”

  “That’s okay.” Laura walks over to her car and unlocks the driver’s side door. “I’m not in the mood to drink.”

  The party is at Gary Locke’s house. Gary is a good guy, a little nerdy maybe. Cross country runner. Thick, dark-rimmed glasses. Drives a Volkswagen Rabbit. Gary was Laura’s date to the senior prom, the safety valve in that transitional phase between dumping Lee Barnes and getting back with me. They’re like brother and sister.

  Two beers into the party, I notice Laura isn’t talking to me. If I were the paranoid type—and I am—I’d say she’s going out of her way not to engage me. She’s floating around the room, hanging a bit too much on Gary’s arm, and laughing too hard at his unfunny jokes. I see her talking to people I’ve never seen in my life, fake laughing at their stories, too. Or she’s sipping on a bottle of soda water while standing alone.

  “Sheila!” I catch her out of the corner of my eye, cigarette in hand and about to make a break for the back porch.

  “Hank.” She gives me a hug, a plastic cup of keg beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “How was Hilton Head?”

  Sheila Fleming lives three blocks down the street from my house. We shared the same bus as underclassmen. Sheila is cute in an unconventional way, thin-figured with a freckled pale complexion, straight orange-red hair, and coffee brown eyes. She was Hatch’s girlfriend for like two minutes, so I keep my flirting to a minimum. Sheila is in Laura’s circle of friends—maybe not her absolute best friend but close enough.

  “Hilton Head was okay,” I say.

  “How’s Hatch doing?” Sheila asks.

  I wave off her more courteous than sincere question. “Never mind that, what’s up with Laura?”

  “Laura?”

  “Yeah, Laura.”

  Sheila takes a drag off her cigarette, exhales. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She’s avoiding eye contact with me. When she reaches to open the patio door, I hold the door shut. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

  “Hank, please let go of the doo
r. This isn’t something you and I should be talking about.”

  “What shouldn’t we be talking about?”

  “Hank!” Laura is right behind me. “Leave Sheila alone.”

  I release the door, execute a half turn. Sheila flees. “Nice of you to acknowledge my existence tonight.”

  “Please, Hank.” Laura leans in close to me. “We’ll go back to my house. I’ll explain everything there.”

  “Explain? Okay, now you’re just scaring me.”

  Laura grabs my hand. “Don’t be scared. We’re fine. For whatever stupid reason, I just thought I could put off telling you.”

  “Put off telling me what?”

  “I can’t tell you now. At least not here.”

  The drive back to Laura’s house is interminable. She says nothing to me. I can’t get over how tired she looks.

  Laura pulls into her driveway, beside my car. The family room and kitchen lights are on in her house because her parents are home. She takes the keys out of the ignition and sighs. She leans back in her seat. “I guess we can talk here.”

  I am now in full panic mode. I feel like I’ve been here before. “Laura, whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

  “You will?”

  “I’ll try at least. You’re about to go off to college, a college that’s your backup choice even. You need to figure out what you want in life. There’s a lot of stuff going through your head right now. “

  “More than you know.”

  “I love you, Laura.”

  Laura raises her hand to my face, runs her fingers though my hair and over my ear. “I love you, too, Hank.”

  “And I love you enough to give you your space if you want it.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “You mean this isn’t going to be your I-need-to-be-free-and-you’re-nothing-but-dead-weight speech?”

  “No.” Laura shakes her head. “Not at all.”

  “You didn’t get drunk at some party while I was gone and end up mashing with Lee Barnes, just for old time’s sake?”

  Laura makes the face I make when I drink tequila. “Dear God, no.”

  “All this time you just pretended to like Scorpions because I told you they were my favorite band? They’re not my favorite band, you know. I mean, I love their music obviously, but—”

  “This is serious, Hank.”

  “Is it?”

  “Very serious.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “I don’t quite know how to tell you.”

  “Just come right out and say it.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “I can take it.”

  “But maybe I can’t.”

  “As long as we’re together, that’s all that matters.”

  “You say that now.”

  “Come on, Laura. We’ve been through everything these last few months.”

  “Not everything.”

  “Okay, maybe not everything. But enough that you and I can handle whatever life throws at—”

  “I’m pregnant, Hank.”

  I picture myself back at my Christian Awakening retreat, talking to Jesus. Someone has handed me the crucifix. Jesus speaks to me. “It’s okay, Hank. Let it out. The Lord is listening.”

  “Hey there, Jesus. I did something I’m not too proud of. I fell in love with this girl. And, well, Jesus, we got in some trouble, my girlfriend and I.”

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  “As in ‘that girl’s in trouble’ trouble.”

  Jesus breaks into song. “Oh, we got trouble, right here in River City. With a capital T that rhymes with P that stands for ‘pregnant.’”

  “I didn’t take you for a Music Man guy, JC.”

  “Don’t call me JC. And why is it everybody assumes I fucking love Jesus Christ Superstar?”

  “Well, you are the star and all. Although to be honest, Judas steals the show. Not to mention Mary is one sweet-looking piece of—”

  “Hank, that’s my mom you’re talking about!”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m talking about Mary Magdalene, as played by the sultry, olive-skinned actress Yvonne Marianne Elliman.”

  “Same difference.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Did you not mistake her for the Virgin Mary the first time you saw Jesus Christ Superstar and fantasize about her for a solid decade?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “And what is your point?”

  “My point is the whole theory about Mary’s perpetual virginity.”

  “The whole theory?”

  “It’s bullshit. Are you telling me Joseph never hit that, ever?”

  “And now you’re blaspheming my stepfather. Terrific, Hank.”

  “Don’t get me started on Joseph. The Patron Saint of Grin and Bear It. Mary says, ‘Sure I’ll marry you, Joe.’ Cue wedding bells. Cue wedding night. ‘Silly me, did I forget to mention I’ve pledged to my God that I will live and die a virgin?’ Then lo and behold, a couple months later, Joseph finds a home pregnancy test stashed in the bottom of a trashcan. Mary says, ‘Joe, I swear to you I’m not sleepin’ around. An angel knocked me up.’”

  “In all fairness, Joseph’s initial reaction was to have Mom stoned to death. And in some religious traditions, people believe Joseph and Mom did indeed shack up after I was born.”

  “Did they?”

  “Hell no. But either way, I think you’re hovering dangerously close to smite territory.”

  “You still do that?”

  “No, not really. That was more Dad’s gig, back when Moses was around. Peter and Paul’s market research showed a demand for a kinder, gentler Messiah, especially with adulterers ages eighteen to thirty-four. That’s a growing demographic for us.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. What is up with the Book of Leviticus?

  “I get that all the time. Not the Holy Father’s best work.”

  “I should say not.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be about you, Hank. You’re the one holding the crucifix.”

  “One last point about Joseph. What’s he get for his sacrifice?”

  “What’s he get, Hank? Well, sainthood for one.”

  “And with that, what? The distinction of being the world’s only eternal foster dad? A stand-in who’ll never be allowed to call the purest of sons his own?”

  “That’s a little harsh, Hank. Joseph was a good man.”

  “I’m sure he was. I’d also like to think that you, at least for the first few years of your life, were childlike and naïve, blissfully unaware of your destiny. I picture you fishing with Joseph, the two of you making the Passover pilgrimage to Jerusalem, you on his shoulder, laughing.”

  “Those were some good times, Hank.”

  “I bet they were. I can even picture Joseph tucking you into bed at night and you dreaming dreams of being a carpenter like your dad and taking his tools to show and tell.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was pretty handy with a hammer.”

  “See! Is it too much to ask that your eyes were those of a real boy who saw in Joseph a real father—the everything plus a little more that dads, good dads, are supposed to be to their sons, to their children?”

  “You got some serious issues.”

  “And you’re thinking to yourself right now, ‘Why didn’t I become a fucking carpenter?’”

  “Touché, Hank.”

  “Pregnant?” I say. “How’d this happen?”

  “How?” Laura says. “Well, Hank, when a man and a woman…”

  “That’s not what I meant. We were careful.”

  “We weren’t careful every time.” />
  “Okay once, but that was our first…” Laura arches her eyebrows.

  “No way.”

  “I’ve done the math.”

  “Come on.”

  “We got pregnant the first time we ever had sex.”

  “Back in May?”

  “That would be when we first had sex, yes.”

  “A two for one deal I guess.”

  “A two for what?”

  “Never mind,” I say. Laura is unfocused. Good. As much as I might want to scrutinize the tragic irony of getting my high school sweetheart pregnant at the exact same moment I lost my virginity, this conversation is best left on the cutting room floor.

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “Just find a way to get through it.”

  “What did your parents say?”

  “My parents?”

  “I assume you told them.”

  “Are you high?”

  “You’re going to start showing pretty soon. I’m surprised you aren’t showing already. I’m surprised no one has noticed.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

  “You’ll handle it? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means what it means.”

  My parochial school teachers gather behind me in the shadow of memory, behind them the images that freak me out above all others from my Catholic education. To the teachers’ left is the crucifixion in all its graphic splendor, right down to Jesus’ wounds on his hands and feet—the wounds I could never resist fingering on the oversized crucifix that hung over my bed. “The wounds your sins created and continue to infect,” the nuns used to be so fond of reminding me. To my teachers’ right, a triptych of photos proceeding by trimester—a translucent arm and leg floating on top of a quarter in a pool of amniotic fluid, a pruned corpse placed in a miniature casket for a Pro-Life photo op, and of course the ubiquitous black garbage bag overflowing with the bloodied, grizzled body parts of dead babies.

  “No, Laura.”

  “I’ve already made up my mind, Hank.”

  “But how can you get the procedure without…”