Shooting Lights

by Mary Victoria Johnson

  “Do you think we’ll make it?” Jeanne croaked. Her voice sounded unused, unnatural.

  I waited for anyone else to respond. “Hopefully.”

  “Okay.”

  When the bus came, it was far busier than it had been yesterday evening. Within, there were people standing up and hanging for dear life, forced to get uncomfortably intimate with everyone else around them.

  “Where you headed?” the driver asked, noticing our hesitation. When we told him, he said, “Y’know, given where you are, it’d probably be quicker to take the train. The station’s on my route.”

  So that was what we did. Thank goodness Jeanne also had her credit cards with her, loaded with more money than the other three of us combined, and offered to pay whatever we couldn’t.

  “Does it count as a road trip if we’re taking the train? More of a rail trip, you’d think,” Chris said. We all ignored him. He didn’t speak again.

  It was three hours to Grateley, the closest station to Stonehenge. There would be one stop to change lines, but at least we’d make it in time. Even if we had to walk the rest of the way once we arrived in Grateley, we’d make it in time.

  The interior of the train was composed of bright blue velour seats, a beige linoleum floor, and advertisements lining the ceiling next to harsh, white strip-lighting. I sat by the grubby window, turning away as Jeanne sat next to me, with the boys facing us in the other direction. There was an old woman behind me who kept coughing and enough middle-aged men in suits to populate Castle Acre several times. A conductor checked our tickets, robotically enough that I doubted he’d notice if they were dated from years ago, and then we were left to abandon ourselves to the rhythmic chugging of the train as it sped from the station. Skyscrapers and billboards, tangled messes of powerlines, and frequent stops outside of identical stations where people got off to be replaced by doppelgängers in exactly the same suit with exactly the same haircut. Despite being surrounded by people, I was alarmed by how lonely the city felt compared to home.

  Unfortunately, our stop required a significant diversion south through the heart of London, where tourists joined the throngs of businessmen and gathered at the windows as we caught a glimpse of Tower Bridge. Chris stood up to let a heavily pregnant woman sit down, and Jeanne was forced closer to me when a particularly . . . well-insulated figure took a standing position right beside her.

  We were off at Clapham Junction, a station so bustling it was claustrophobic. We all purchased the biggest ploughman’s sandwiches I’d ever seen from a kiosk, resulting in us nearly missing our connection as we struggled to finish them. Then we were straight back on a smaller, but otherwise similar train for the long haul.

  As we moved farther west, the London commuters thinned out and the stops became less frequent. Skyscrapers shrunk into more housing estates, and every now and then, it was possible to see the suggestion of greenery.

  “Well,” Chris said so suddenly we all flinched, “because I never actually went to Land’s End, this is the farthest west I’ve ever gone in England.”

  “I suppose I win at that game.” Jeanne offered a small smile, then retracted it after I remained straight-faced. “You know. Being Welsh and all.”

  A few minutes of more tense silence, then, “Once, at the mess, we served a meal that was entirely pink.”

  Jeanne, Ritchie, and I gaped at him with clear what-drugs-are-you-on expressions. He laughed, and it was warm and genuine.

  “Seriously. Not quite as fantastic as flying my own fighter jet, but still pretty funny.” Chris slipped on his Ray-Bans as we pitched into direct sunlight, continuing, “My boss came in with this massive bottle of pink coloring and just started pouring it into everything. The bread rolls, the gravy, the vegetables—we even painted it over the meat. So I helped serve the officers in the mess—the guys who actually do stuff—and you could see the question marks hovering over their heads. Because everything’s pink. Then they tuck in and start eating like nothing’s out of the ordinary, and I swear, it was the coolest reaction I’ve ever seen.”

  On its own accord, my lips curled at the corners.

  “And, Ritchie, remember when they did the general survey?” Ritchie gave a slight incline of his head, mouth twitching, and Chris went on, “Well, us Americans are usually decent church-going folk, but word got round that a lot of us younger delinquents were going to write ‘Jedi’ under religion, because what else were we supposed to write, and sure enough, Mildenhall had to seriously consider hiring twelve Jedi priests based on our response.”

  “It’s a shame they never went through with it,” Ritchie mused. “I was considering getting ordained.”

  At this, Jeanne let loose a muffled guffaw.

  “Then there was that time when they posted . . . ” Chris broke off, starting to chuckle to himself. “Sorry, they posted joke signs all over base about some escaped moose that had hijacked an incoming plane from Canada, and whenever they were taken down, they’d just reappear again. Warning people not to get too close and all that. So Ritchie and I decide to put together this stupid costume and parade about as this moose—”

  “Ritchie did that?” Jeanne asked, no longer bothering to stifle her giggles.

  “Yeah,” Chris said over another bout of laughter. “He made a beautiful moose’s butt.”

  Ritchie made a face that was midway between a scowl, a smile, and a grimace.

  “But thing is, we weren’t the only ones. The people who were behind the posters also dressed up, so for about two weeks, Mildenhall had two fake moose strutting around base until we ran into each other and realized what was happening. People took pictures and . . . ” He shook his head, wiping away a tear. “God, it was so funny. You had to be there. The Great Moose Blight of ’86.”

  I realized I was snickering, my body shaking with repressed laughter. I hadn’t even realized it. It was so silly, so outlandish, and I shouldn’t have let myself slip because I still had every reason to be angry and yet . . . gosh, it felt like the best medicine in the world. Watching the drab urban scenery transform into lush farmland greener than anything we had in Norfolk, the four of us laughing as though nothing terrible had ever happened . . . the world was once again perfect. If only for a moment.

  “I guess truth really is stranger than fiction,” I said. “Did you ever do actual work? Any of you?”

  “Sure. But there was always a good bit of fun to balance it out. The commanding officers had their hands full.” Chris removed his sunglasses and looked at me, piercing blue eyes boring into my hazel ones. “Teresa . . . ”

  “ . . . we’re sorry,” Ritchie finished.

  “Thank you for laughing,” added Chris.

  “I feel really, really, really guilty.” Jeanne sighed. “It was particularly stupid, even by my standards, and that’s saying something.”

  “She’s right. And ditto.”

  “Seriously, Tree . . . I don’t . . . I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make that up to you, and I’m sorry about not listening to you earlier and telling you to leave and . . . ” Jeanne’s voice was starting to break. “ . . . You’re so special to me and I hate to think that I ever gave the impression of not caring enough.”

  I opened my mouth and closed it several times, unable to squeeze any words between their fragmented apologies, not sure if I should tell them it was okay or not. Jeanne had driven drunk, which could have ended much worse, and nearly ruined our entire trip by wrecking the car, not caring if I had decided to go home or not. Plus, there was that whole kissing business . . . yet I was rubbish at holding grudges.

  “Well,” I said when they finally shut up, “thanks for making me laugh, Chris. And for the apology, all of you. I—”

  Jeanne threw her arms around me, so tightly my breath caught in my throat, and didn’t let go. There were no so-mushy-they’re-sarcastic professions of our friendship or further requests for forgiveness. Just the hug.

  Another set of arms joined in. Then, somewhat awkwardly, came Ritch
e with wafts of mint, leather, and a fair amount of lingering alcohol.

  “This is the part,” Jeanne whispered, “that you two say you’re sorry for lying to us. And re-apologize for Elm House.”

  “But that was hilarious.”

  “Dang it, Ritchie, we’re trying to get them to like us again.”

  We broke apart as the train screeched into another station, where only one person got on and only two got off. The new person gave us a sideways frown, taking the seat farthest away.

  “By the way,” Jeanne said almost conversationally as the boys returned to their own seats, “while we’re being honest here”—was she going to admit her fling with Ritchie?—“I think my wrist is broken. Actually, come to think of it, I probably shouldn’t have done the whole hugging thing.”

  It took a moment or two to register that. Then I realized how pale she was, and how, hidden under the pink and yellow taffeta of her skirt, her wrist was taking on the same shape as a potato and the same color as the skirt.

  “Is that from last night?” I exclaimed. “Jeanne, why on earth didn’t you say anything?”

  “A: far too out of it, and B: didn’t want to further hinder the trip.” She winced. “Sorry.”

  Just like that, reality came galumphing back into the picture. Even if one of the few remaining stops had a hospital nearby, getting Jeanne’s wrist examined and casted would put a several-hour delay on the journey. Perhaps they’d even ask her to come back the next day, or ask too many questions.

  “Can you move your fingers?” asked Ritchie. His expression returned to his usual poker face, but I noticed an unfamiliar concern lurking just below the surface.

  “Yeah, but it hurts like hell.” She demonstrated, weakly flexing her thumb and index finger.

  “Can I see?”

  I stood up so Ritchie could come beside her, nearly falling onto Chris as the train picked up speed.

  “Maintenance staff often got into medical situations,” Chris explained to me. “Basic first aid was especially important for them.”

  I watched as Ritchie’s fingers prodded and poked, ever so gently, as he murmured a mixture of instructions and questions to Jeanne. No presence, no pageantry. Just something oddly tender neither of them showed very often.

  “It’s not broken badly,” Ritchie said after a while, pulling away. Jeanne almost appeared disappointed. “I mean, I’m no professional, but I doubt it’s more than a fracture. It must’ve been from the force of crashing so suddenly while she was holding the wheel.”

  “So, it won’t have to be amputated?”

  “Possibly,” he replied, so seriously I deliberated whether he wasn’t actually joking. “But if we bind it, it may still be saved.”

  I rifled through my purse. “I’ve got that scarf I borrowed back in Elm House. Can you use that?”

  I waited for the snarky comment from Jeanne, something along the lines of, So, that’s where it went, you thieving brat, but she only smiled.

  Ritchie took it, untangled it, and nodded with approval. “Perfect.”

  He made a makeshift cast, much more colorful and characteristically Jeanne than anything she could have gotten from a hospital, bound well enough that her forearm was held straight. Afterward, he didn’t make any move to take his original seat back.

  “Now,” he said with a groan, “does anyone have any coffee?”

  “Hangover?” Chris asked.

  Jeanne and Ritchie both nodded.

  “Good.”

  Two rude gestures.

  With the tension of before melted away, Jeanne clearly felt it appropriate to do something she’d been wanting to do since boarding the train: fall asleep. To be more specific, fall asleep on Ritchie’s shoulder. At first he sat awfully upright, like he was afraid of moving and waking her, then gave in and rested his own head on top of hers.

  “Want the window?”

  “Huh?” I started, jerking myself away from the Jeanne & Ritchie Show to face Chris. I’d almost forgotten I was sitting next to him.

  “You look tired, that’s all, and you probably don’t want my shoulder.”

  Actually . . .

  “Thanks. But I’m fine.”

  “Fine,” Chris echoed. He made it sound as though the word confused him. Then he shrugged and turned away to face the window himself.

  The train snaked its way through the downs, a range of ancient chalk hills riddled with pastureland and seemingly purposeless monuments. Just as Norfolk, Suffolk, and Essex were all home to flint cottages, the villages here all sported buildings made out of identical, beige-colored Cotswold stone. The sky was far more overcast here; summer hadn’t yet arrived in the west.

  Jeanne and Ritchie stayed asleep, only fluttering their eyes open on one instance when a gaggle of rowdy schoolchildren walked through our coach. Chris, who I was beginning to suspect thrived off of talking, tried to strike up several conversations with me.

  “Are you still angry?”

  “No,” I said, not sure if I meant it or not.

  “You have every reason to be.”

  “Oh, I know.” I stared at my knees, unsure of whether I should make eye contact. It felt odd, being so close to him. When I glanced at Chris, he was also focused on the floor, fidgeting. “At least you’re all being super nice to me now, hey?”

  “You deserve it.” He grinned. “You’re my new hero.”

  “What does that make you, the damsel in distress?”

  “If the damsel thought it was a good idea to chug some potions before climbing out of the tower, then yes.” The grin widened, and he finally looked right at me. “Hopefully this means it’s happily ever after from here on out.”

  “Depends on the other two princesses, I think,” I said, nodding at Jeanne and Ritchie.

  “I’ll keep them in check from now on, promise. Well, Ritchie, anyway. Jeanne might need someone with more experience.”

  “Clearly I don’t have enough.”

  “I get that.” His gaze flickered to Ritchie, smile thinning. “You wouldn’t believe the crap he’s dragged me into. Because I talk more, people assume I’m always the instigator, but . . . he doesn’t understand what ‘no’ means. He’s irritatingly persuasive, too.”

  “What kind of crap?” I asked, watching Jeanne and deciding I completely understood what he meant.

  “Just stupid stuff.” He shuddered and laughed. “Elm House, for example. Lying about who we were. I mean, I’m good at playing the role, but I wish I was more like you. You had the guts to walk out on Jeanne last night. I knew . . . I knew what we were doing, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t . . . I didn’t say anything. I can talk for hours on end about nothing, but when it comes to things that are actually important, I’m useless.”

  I wish I was more like you.

  He cut off as the train ground to a halt, startling both Jeanne and Ritchie awake again. It took all of us far too long to recognize this stop as our own, but a sign screaming GRATELEY, HANTS confirmed it. We were here.

  IT WAS TEN MILES FROM GRATELEY TO STONEHENGE, a distance that would take us at least three hours to walk. By bus however, it would be an easy, breezy fifteen minutes.

  Approximately two hundred miles down. Ten to go.

  “Where did all these tourists come from?” Jeanne groaned as we boarded a bus bound for Stonehenge, a bus crammed to the brim with every sort of person imaginable. Barely any had local accents.

  “I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but we’re tourists.”

  Brilliant. I knew I kept you around for a reason. I meant foreign tourists, genius.

  “I suppose so,” she replied instead.

  I doubted that on any other day of the year Grateley received many visitors. However, being in possession of the closest station to Stonehenge, hours before the solstice, they’d clearly had to make some adjustments. Deciding that the bus was now at capacity, the driver didn’t stop until we arrived at what was easily the biggest makeshift carpark I’d ever seen. We were in the middl
e of the Salisbury Plain, an area characterized by acres of nothing but treeless expanses of grassland. This enabled visitors to completely override the designated parking spaces and pull up wherever they chose.

  “Oh my . . . ” I sucked in a breath, stunned by the sheer size of the crowd. “How many . . . ?”

  “Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?” Chris shrugged, not bothering to hide his own awe. “And that’s just a guess.”

  Judging by Jeanne’s reaction, I could tell she’d not done her research on the popularity of this event. She, more than likely, had been hoping for something a little less touristy. Something where everyone wore their hair long and loose and dressed in patterns, not a swarm of babbling tourists toting cameras bigger than their heads. I, admittedly, was on the same page.

  “Well,” said Ritchie, tonelessly, “we made it.”

  We made it.

  “So, I suppose now we get as close as we can and wait for the sunset?”

  “Uh, no.” Jeanne shook her head, still gazing at the mass of cars, buses, and people spread over the plain. “We wait for sunrise. That’s when the sun aligns with the henge and whatnot.”

  Ritchie pulled a face like he was a child given nothing except underwear for Christmas. “In all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever, ever, ever been awake for a sunrise.”

  “Today’s your lucky day,” I murmured. “Or, rather, tomorrow.”

  “You slept on the train.” Chris waved his hand dismissively. “You’ll be fine. C’mon, let’s go before the best seats get taken.”

  Given it was the longest day of the year, the sun was still high in the sky. Without a sliver of shade to be seen, I quickly found myself melting under the glare, the excess of body heat not helping. A few brave volunteers attempted to police incoming traffic by demanding people purchase tickets, but with nothing more than a flimsy rope to maintain order, they were easy to avoid. Since they had at least successfully managed to keep the vehicles far enough away from the monument, we found ourselves in for a decent trek down a footpath with several hundred others. Cows, munching away in a nearby field, observed with dim interest.