by David Klass
“You’re kidding, right? Thirty, and that’s generous.”
“Fifty, or we’re gonna have trouble.”
Everyone suddenly goes quiet. Apparently, these are not men who make idle threats. The word “trouble” buzzes in the air like an angry wasp at a picnic lunch. The short man looks back at the man who is not my father as if sizing him up. The man who is not my father returns his gaze steadily. I find myself wondering if the man who is not my father has taken his gun from his sock drawer and is carrying it in his pocket.
“Oh, take it and get the hell out of here,” the short man finally says, peeling off several more bills and handing them to him.
The man who is not my father pockets the money and turns to me. “You know where to go,” he says.
“Yes sir.” I climb into the back of the truck. Without any TV sets, it feels spacious. The man who is not my father locks me in and gets in the cab, and off we go, just the two of us, speeding away into the dark and freezing night.
Our short haul is finished, but I sense that this strange night is not yet over.
16
Trump Card
We drive for a long time. I try to convince myself that we are heading home, and that I will soon be in my nice warm bed.
I am not sure what I will do if I suddenly find myself on my own street, in front of my home that is not a home. Perhaps I will scream for all the world to hear. Or perhaps I will run into the house, wake my mother, who is no doubt asleep, and tell her the truth about this man she has brought home to share my father’s bed with. Or perhaps I will be craftier and bide my time until the moment is right to go to the police.
But in my heart of hearts, I must admit that I do not believe that we are heading home. I believe that the man who is not my father has other things planned. This entire strange night seems to be building toward some dramatic denouement, whatever that means. I do not know exactly how he intends to hurt me, but I have no doubt that that is his ultimate objective, and that he has something particularly excruciating planned.
In the darkness of the back of the truck, without even widescreen TV sets for company, I can hear the beating of my own frightened heart. Ka-thump. Ka-thump. I find myself doing something that I rarely do—I whisper a prayer to my God who is not my God.
My God is not my God because he does not answer my prayers. Either he has no power, in which case he may be a very nice fellow but he is not a God, or he does not like me, in which case he may be a God but he is not my God. I have prayed to him many times and he has never once done what I ask him to do. In fact, he usually does almost exactly the opposite. Perhaps I should pray for what I do not want, and then I might get it.
“O God who is not my God,” I pray, “you who have never granted even one of my extremely reasonable requests. You may wonder why I am praying to you, since we have such a bad track record together. Well, the simple fact is that I am all alone here in the back of this truck, and whether you are a God or not, and whether you even like me or not, you are all I have at the moment. You are it.”
My prayer to my God who is not my God is not starting out very well, but I believe that honesty is the most important quality in a prayer, and I am doing the best I can. So I continue:
“Now, it is true that I have not led a perfect life. I admit that some of the thoughts that pop into my head are shameful and sinful and just plain outrageous, and if you can scan them over my shoulder, so to speak, I can imagine why you are disappointed in me. Furthermore, I know I have said on more than one occasion that I do not believe in you. But the truth is, O my God who is not my God, I did believe in you all along. I simply wasn’t scared enough to admit it. Everybody believes in God if they are frightened enough, and right now I am feeling particularly faithful.
“But—and this is the most important thing, so please hear me out—I believe that deep down I am not such a bad person. I am not cruel. I do not hurt people without due cause. And I will try to be an even better person if you will just grant one very simple request: get me out of here. Let me go home. Do not allow the man who is not my father to hurt me in whatever excruciating way he has planned. Show me some sign that you are with me, and that you have heard my prayer, and that you are prepared to act.”
In the lonely silence of the back of the truck, I wait for some divine sign. It would be nice if a dove would perch on my shoulder. I would even settle for a moth landing on my nose. But if there is a sign, I do not detect it. We roll on through the night. And I am all alone in the darkness, listening to the beating of my own heart. Ka-thump. Ka-thump.
The truck slows and stops. The man who is not my father has brought me to the place of his choosing, and I sense a showdown is near.
I stand there, in the dark truck bed, and wonder where we are. We could be anywhere. We could be in some far corner of the universe. The way this particular night has been going, this would not surprise me at all.
The man who is not my father slides the door open. He is holding a flashlight in one hand. He shines it right in my eyes. This time he does not even need to say “Get out.” I clamber down.
We are not in an alternate universe, but we are also not in front of my house that is not a house. We are in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere turns out to be cold and very dark. A night wind is blowing, and as I climb out of the truck with my sore legs and back protesting every movement, I believe the wind blows right through me.
We appear to be on the side of a narrow road in a forest. I can see bony tree limbs silhouetted overhead against the silvery moon. And I can hear the wind roaring between tree trunks and whistling through branches. If you do not think that wind can sound like a live animal—like a hungry and dangerous beast—then you have never been in a dark forest at night.
“You worked hard tonight,” the man who is not my father says. “I’m proud of you.”
I say nothing. I have no idea at all where this is going, except that I am very sure he is not proud of me in any way, shape, or form. He is setting me up. That’s what he is doing.
“And I was proud that you didn’t do something stupid, like try to make a run for it, or scream for help. That would have been a big mistake, and you were smart not to do it. You’re clever that way. I would have been very hard on you.”
“You can stop threatening me,” I tell him. “I did not scream and I did not run for it because you won’t dare hurt me, and we both know it.”
His flashlight beam is pointed at my face. I squint my eyes and look back at him—I can barely make out his features in the darkness. But I can hear his voice clearly, and he sounds almost amused as he asks, “Why do you think that?”
I play my only card. “My mom.”
He laughs. “John, your mom is gone.”
I have never been this cold in my life. My teeth are chattering so hard I can hardly talk. “Gone where?”
“Plenty too far to hear you scream. About five hundred miles. Her aunt is dying. I guess old Auntie Rose is all alone there, and your mom is the only person who can put her in the ground. She left this morning. Took the sick time she had saved up at the factory and caught the bus for Maysville.”
For a moment, even in the bitter cold, I feel a pang of deep sympathy for a kind old woman I met only twice, years ago, when she visited us. Even then she was white-haired and frail, and she seemed all alone in the world.
“At first I didn’t like it that your mom was going,” the man who is not my father says. “She belongs home, taking care of me. I had some drinks and even tore up the house a little. But then I got to thinking. Maybe old Rose will leave us some money. I just hope your mom buries her cheap.”
I have still not accepted the fact that my mother has deserted me. “I don’t believe you,” I blurt out. “She would never leave without even telling me.”
“She didn’t want her old aunt to die before she got there,” the man who is not my father explains. “And I assured her that I would take the very best care of you till she got back. It co
uld be two days. It could be a week. Who knows how much life old Rose has left in her.” He pauses, and even though I cannot see his face clearly, I know the man who is not my father is giving me his cruel little smile. “And you’re right—the fact is, your mom wanted to take you with her, but I convinced her it would be a mistake to pull you out of school. And we both agreed this would be a good opportunity.”
The way he says this last word is very creepy. We are getting to the nitty-gritty. His trump card is in his hand, but he has not yet shown it to me. “Opportunity for what?” I ask.
“For us to get used to our new relationship,” the man who is not my father says.
I am afraid to hear what he will say next. He does not speak right away—he pauses for several seconds as if he is about to tell me something so unpleasant that it makes even him hesitate. “You see, John, the man who is your real father is coming back home. He should be there by tomorrow morning. I am moving out. There is no longer a place for me in your home. Your life will be happy now. I wanted to take you on a short haul tonight so that you could see exactly what I’m really like, and how miserable your life could have been if you hadn’t caught this lucky break.”
But, of course, the man who is not my father doesn’t say any of this. This is the speech that I want to hear, but it is not the speech that he delivers. He just stands there, holding the flashlight in my eyes, and watches me shiver in the cold. Finally he speaks. “Your mother and I are getting married, John,” he tells me. “As soon as she comes back from Maysville. Nothing fancy. Just a little wedding ceremony. Whatever old Rose leaves us will come in handy.”
There is a roaring in my ears, and it has nothing to do with the wind that is gusting around us.
“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“How about ‘congratulations’?”
“Congratulations,” I hear myself mutter.
For the first time he angles his flashlight so that I can see his own face. It is a face that I hate, from chin to hairline, from ear to ear. “Congratulations what?” he asks.
I shrug. What does it matter. “Congratulations, sir.”
“No,” he says, “congratulations, Father.”
“That is something I will never say,” I tell him. “Never in a million years. You can do whatever you want to me and I will never say it.”
He smiles. “You look cold, John. I guess it’s time to go home. We can talk about this some other time. We’ll have lots of time to talk.” And that is clearly a threat. I see now that everything he says and does is a trap or a land mine or carries a hidden threat. And the kinder or more honest he pretends to be, the more dangerous he really is. Now, looking at me, he appears almost sympathetic, and I prepare myself for the very worst. “But,” he says in a low voice, “for what it’s worth, even if you hate my guts, you should admit that I’m a better man than your real father ever was.”
“That’s a lie,” I say, much too loud. “You don’t know my father. You don’t know anything about him.”
“Just what your mother’s told me,” he admits. “But that’s enough. I never claimed to be a saint, John, but I would never have been cold enough to do what he did. To just leave a young wife and her little son, with no explanation and no forwarding address. To just disappear—drop off the face of the earth. That’s beyond cruel. That’s beyond heartless. Think what you will of me, John, even I would never do that. That’s beyond contempt.”
I open my mouth, but there is absolutely nothing I can say back to him. Instead, I feel tears in my eyes, and sobs in my throat, and I just lower my head in shame, because, God help me, what he has just said is true.
17
Running away from Home
You do not know me and you will not miss me.
I pack one bag. What a depressing yet thrilling realization—that all the items I value in life fit in one small black duffel bag.
The best time to run away from home is not the middle of the night. That is, in fact, one of the worst times you can try it. It is dark and cold in the middle of the night, and everyone who is not running away from home is asleep, so you will stand out. Police will spot you in bus stations. Passing motorists will not see you with your thumb out, or they will be too afraid to pick you up.
The best time is early in the morning, when the sun is just starting to come up, and everyone is busy brushing their teeth and getting dressed and the roads and bus stations and airports are starting to fill up with people in a hurry.
I am out on the road bright and early in my winter coat with my black duffel bag thrown over my shoulder. I am not cold because I am wearing long winter underwear under my jeans and flannel shirt. Zoom, zoom, the cars pass by, but I do not care. Eventually one will stop.
The day before, I wrote two letters. One was to the police, revealing all that I know of the man who is not my father’s illegal activities. I mailed that letter yesterday afternoon, so they should be receiving it today at the station house. The other letter was to my mother, telling her that she has made her choice and now I am making mine. I left that letter in the top drawer of her dresser so that she will find it when she returns from burying her Aunt Rose.
Zoom, zoom, the cars go by.
And then one stops. It is a shiny red sports car, driven by a very attractive young woman. “Are you hitchhiking?” she asks me.
The question surprises me. “Don’t you see my thumb sticking out?” I reply.
“But . . . you look like you should be in school.”
“I won’t ask you your business and please don’t ask me mine,” I respond. “I need a ride. Will you give me one?”
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Where are you going?” I echo her question.
“Los Angeles,” she says.
“That is where I am going, too.”
She gives me a very long look. “You’re determined to do this?”
“Yes,” I say.
“You’ve considered all the options?”
“There are no options.”
“Better me than somebody else,” she says with a sigh. “Get in.”
We drive across the vast United States together. We cross prairies. We see muskrats. We cross mountains. We see bighorn sheep. We cross rivers. We see barges and riverboats. This is a great big beautiful country, the United States. The man who is not my father will never find me. The police in my town that is not a town will find him, but they, too, will never find me. My mother will never locate me.
I am free and clear.
The woman’s name turns out to be Miranda. In the early afternoon of one sunny day we stop to eat lunch at a rest stop on a mountain overlooking a prairie. I violate my own rule and ask her about her business. “Why are you going to Los Angeles?”
“I live in Los Angeles,” Miranda says. “I am returning home.”
“What do you do there?”
“I run a school for girls,” she says. “It is not a big school, but it is a very special school. The student body consists of two hundred teenage girls. And did I mention that all the teachers are women, too. My school is right on the beach. It is called the Los Angeles Girls School on the Beach. If you don’t have a place to stay in Los Angeles, John, why don’t you come and stay at the school for a while.”
“What would I do at the school?” I ask.
“You could be a lifeguard at the giant Jacuzzi,” she says. “And you could rub suntan oil on the girls when they start to get sunburned . . .”
As you have probably guessed by now, I am not in fact running away from home. If I did run away from home, the odds are very strong that I would not be picked up by a beautiful woman like Miranda. The odds are I would be picked up by a nutcase or a robber or a child molester. But that is not why I don’t run away from home.
I do not run away from home because that would be surrender. I am pretty far down, but I am not yet out. I am currently lying on my bed. It is Monday, a
school day, but I am not at school. This morning I prepared breakfast for the man who is not my father, as I did on Saturday morning, and again on Sunday morning, according to his instructions. I fetched his newspaper. I brewed his coffee. I called him sir.
I did not know that it was possible for me to hate someone as much as I hate him.
My body is not as sore as it was on Saturday morning, when I could barely get out of bed, but it is still sore. “I am not going to school today,” I told the man who is not my father when he finished his breakfast this morning. “I am sick.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“I’m still sore from Friday night.”
He looked at me over the top of his newspaper, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Nothing happened on Friday night and you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“Yes, but I don’t feel good.”
“Then don’t go to school. What do I care. But you’ll go tomorrow, no matter how you feel. Got that?”
“Yes sir.”
The man who is not my father drove away in his truck after breakfast and I am lying in my bed thinking about running away from home, and how I will never do it. I will not do it because I will not surrender to the man who is not my father. But there is another reason why I will never do it. I cannot possibly run away from home because I do not have a home to run away from. My home is not a home—it is enemy territory. You cannot run away from something that you do not have.
The man who is not my father has his own theories about family, some of which he was kind enough to set forth for my benefit on the ride home from the forest on Friday night. I admit I do not remember that ride very well. I was shivering with cold and misery, and I spent at least the first hour of that ride trying to stop crying without much success.
“Oh, stop your blubbering,” the man who is not my father said several times with his usual sympathy. “You think you’ve been dealt a hard hand just because your father ditched you, and now you’ve got me to deal with. Well, let me tell you something, everyone takes their lumps. Did I ever tell you about Mona?”