“Now, Matt, tell me, what’s with the act?” Dad asked, as if trying to make Matt angry or give him a driving lesson to help with concentration and focus. “You can’t exactly claim you’re upset I’m not preaching when you don’t even want to go. You’ve got a lot of anger and I’m not sure why you direct it at me.”
“Don’t start on me now!”
I cringed. Dad’s face was stoic. “So, it’s something else?” Dad continued. “Try stopping here.”
Matt put his foot on the brake and the car hiccuped to a stop and died.
“You have to put your foot on the clutch both to shift and to stop,” Dad said. “Start the car again, but don’t forget the clutch.” Matt turned the ignition but the car didn’t screech. “Maybe you don’t really know why you’re mad at me,” Dad said as Matt concentrated on the circumference and kept a steady speed. Matt’s shoulders were tense and hunched. I leaned forward, growing more comfortable with the circular path. “Well?” Dad asked, awaiting his answer.
“I don’t know, Dad,” Matt said, and then sighed.
“Then how about if I give you a big long list and you can take your pick?” Dad asked. “I can think of lots of reasons you might be angry.”
“You can think of lots of reasons that I might be angry?” Matt repeated. In a few years would I talk to Dad with that tone of voice?
“You’re fifteen. That’s a pretty good reason to be angry.” Dad began counting on his fingers, and Matt began to press down on the accelerator. “You’re mad that life isn’t like it was when you were fourteen.” Dad added his forefinger to the reason on his thumb.
I could relate to that. Some birthdays brought privilege, some regret. There were lots of times this year I just wanted to go back to being a kid again. PJ, pre-Joel.
“I don’t need a sermon, Dad,” Matt said as the car bumped over stubble. Now we were going faster than I thought we should.
“You said you didn’t care if I was in the pulpit or not,” Dad reminded him. “So I’m in the pulpit right now.”
“Just shut up,” Matt muttered.
“Slow down, please!” I said from the back.
“You’re mad that Joel is dead.” Dad looked straight ahead, never checking Matt’s reaction. “You’re mad that it takes so long to get over the fact that Joel is dead. You’re mad at yourself at how badly you want to get over that Joel is dead.” With each new point Dad’s voice got louder and Matt’s driving became more erratic. I didn’t think Matt was as mad as Dad was by this point. Dad had never been one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers, but he could have fooled me right then.
I hoped Matt didn’t feel me over his shoulder as I tried to catch his reaction in the rearview mirror. Matt’s mouth was a tight line.
“You’re mad that your dad couldn’t hold on to Joel tight enough to keep him from being dead. And you’re mad that God didn’t stop the whole thing from happening.”
Matt slammed his foot on the accelerator and the car screamed across the stalks as he clutched the steering wheel.
The anger of Matt’s silence was far worse than any of the swear words I’d ever heard him speak. I gripped the seat to keep me steady as Matt mowed down the iced stubble.
“Stop it!” I screamed. My heartbeat raced faster and faster with the pitch of my moans until I was screaming. “Let me out! Let me out!” I reached for the door handle. “I can’t breathe!” I will throw myself out of the car. I will get away. I can do this.
The stalks scraped the bottom of the car, and on muddy, half-frozen patches we slipped around unsteadily. “Stop, stop, stop!” I screamed as my door flew open and the corn stubble scratched my arms. Then Matt slammed on the brakes and turned to see me hanging out of the car, my fingers gripping the handle.
My breath came in short pants, and I couldn’t say anything and neither could they. Though I wanted to run, I couldn’t. A moan escaped me and I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see anything.
“Get back in, Abby,” Matt ordered from the front, and I pulled the door shut and slid to the middle of the seat. Matt cranked the wheel and headed out of the pasture and onto the road. I never sat up; I just hoped there were no other cars on the road.
Slowly, carefully, Matt made his way along the country roads back to our house. I made no noise. All the life had been sucked out of me.
“You forgot one point, Dad,” Matt said at last, but his voice wasn’t angry. It was low and steady—rehearsed. “How about that I’m mad that everybody probably wishes it had been me instead of Joel,” he said. His voice was sad. I wanted to give him a hug around the neck. We were now a block from home. “How about I’m mad at myself that I felt glad it was Joel and not me.” And then Matt slowed and methodically pounded his fist against the steering wheel. “But now I’m mad that it wasn’t me.”
His words hung in the air, but no one knew what to do with them. We didn’t talk as Matt turned into the alley behind our house. We were home.
“Well, now you know,” he said, handing Dad the keys. Matt closed his door and walked in the house. I wasn’t surprised Dad didn’t stop him, because I knew Matt had spoken a truth and there just wasn’t any answer.
With Dad immobilized in the front, I felt like a prisoner, forgotten in the backseat. At last he got out and shut his door, leaving me alone and wondering what to do.
TWENTY
The three of them were finishing dinner, but after that ride, I wasn’t hungry. I knew if I stayed I might scream or cry or who knows what. Plus I didn’t want Mom thinking Dad hadn’t fed me, so I headed right past them.
“Hey, honey, I missed you.” Mom hugged me as I tried to slip out of the kitchen. “Next time tell me where you’re going.”
She couldn’t be serious. I stopped and turned back.
“I just went next door, Mom. Remember that place we used to call home?” Miss Patti started clearing the plates. I continued, “That place we should go back to. It’s been almost a month.” My sarcasm felt surprisingly good and so I didn’t quit. “How much longer is it gonna be, Mom? Pick a date. Let’s go home.”
Rita stared straight ahead, her mouth open but nothing coming out. I guess nobody expected that to come from me. Including me.
“Are you okay, Abby?” Miss Patti asked.
“Did something happen?” Mom asked.
I rolled my eyes and plopped down in my chair. If they only knew.
“Oh brother,” I said disgustedly. Oh brother, indeed, since it was really all about brothers.
“I guess we can take that for a yes,” Miss Patti said.
“I just want it over. I want it to go away.”
Mom nodded her head. “I know. I want to forget about the pain.”
“Everything, Mom. I want to forget it all,” I said angrily. “Except …” I didn’t know what else to say because my eyes burned and I felt so tired and sad.
“You’re afraid you’ll forget him,” Mom said. But I didn’t know if I agreed. I was almost to the point I actually wanted to forget him. Everything was measured PJ or AJ, pre-Joel or after Joel. Maybe PJ was better than ever having Joel and living in AJ. Maybe now I understood why Dad couldn’t answer whether he wished Joel had never been born and maybe I should forgive him. “That’s why I wish I could see him again.” Mom reached out and took my hand. “So I won’t forget. So I can remember everything about him.”
“You won’t forget him,” Miss Patti said softly. “You won’t.” And I knew with a painful certainty that I couldn’t forget him either, but I also couldn’t imagine our future with his memory.
“Why did they say I shouldn’t see him?” Mom asked, pulling her hands away. Her voice was eerie and transparent. “Everybody said it was just a body.” Mom stared off as if talking to someone out the window. Mom’s hands seemed to be holding an imaginary child we knew was Joel. “But it wasn’t just a body. See? I gave birth to him. That little body was the one I bathed at night, dressed in jammies, and rocked to sleep. I counted his toes and tickled his tummy.
I loved the feel of his soft face against mine.”
Patti was strangely silent. Mom leaned forward on her elbows as if the weight of the memory was too great, her hands folded. I had unleashed something by my anger, my questions, my sarcasm.
Mom kept going as if she didn’t expect an answer.
“I sat in that hospital room and I caressed his little arms. I held his hand. I knew he was dead, but something of him was still there, and I knew it would be the last time I’d get to see him or touch him.”
Nobody moved. We all sat at the table together, holding the picture of a mother with her son.
“At least you got a body,” Miss Patti said.
Mom turned. Patti’s tone was reprimanding, and Mom seemed unsure how to respond.
“Patti?”
I looked at Rita, but she wouldn’t look at me.
“What is it, Patti? I don’t understand,” Mom asked.
“I didn’t have a body,” Patti said. “I would have liked to have held him one more time or I’d like to hold him again. But I don’t even know if there was or is a body, because I don’t even know if he’s dead.”
“I don’t think I understand …,” Mom interjected. That made two of us. I looked over to Rita, but she wasn’t looking at me.
“I’d wear the bracelet if it fit on my wrist. Is he POW or MIA? I gave it to Rita.”
As if on cue, Rita got up and left. Was I supposed to leave, too? Who was Miss Patti talking about? I wanted to ask, but it didn’t seem like I was supposed to.
“Actually, I just need to know if it’s over or not. Should I keep waiting?”
Waiting for what? What was this about? Something was wrong but I couldn’t figure out what it was.
“What are you trying to say?” Mom asked my question and Patti cleared her throat and continued.
“He may never come home, and I may never know if he’s dead or alive. That’s what I live with.”
We waited for more story, but it was as if Patti didn’t know where to begin.
“We have a bracelet. It says POW and his name. Jeff Carson. That’s my husband. He was military. We met in Raleigh and got married. Then we had Rita.” Patti paused and looked at us, as if considering whether to go on.
“Rita doesn’t remember him. She was just a baby. He only held her a few times before he got sent over there.”
No wonder Rita would never respond when I asked about Mr. Carson. Where is your dad? It never occurred to me that questions don’t always have an answer.
“I don’t even get to know if Rita will ever meet her dad. It’s been going on eight years since he’s gone missing, and nobody can give me any more information. He’s MIA or POW. No body, no funeral.
“I don’t have a tombstone to visit, and I’m not always certain whether I should grieve or whether I should hope and pray. I’m not sure what facing reality really is because, what is my reality?”
“I’m sorry, Patti. I never knew,” Mom said.
“No way that you could,” she said without blame. “But I’ll tell you what not having a grave can do,” she continued. “You don’t look down to the ground.” She met my mom’s eyes. “Some look up, but I just plain had to look out for us.” Patti’s voice had a steely resolve. “At first everything familiar was sad but somehow comforting. Then it became just plain irritating. Every place reminded me of him. I couldn’t get restarted and I was depressed.” Miss Patti paused and then pointed to all of us, as if there was a lesson to be learned. “But I had an accounting degree, and there was no reason I couldn’t use it. So with the little money we had, we left North Carolina and came here.
“Maybe the reason I don’t tell everybody is that I don’t want to relive it over and over. Nobody here needs to know, anyway. But when you say you wanted to touch the body, I know what you mean. I really do.”
Mom didn’t have to say anything. This time it was her arms around Miss Patti, an embrace that said I’m so sorry.
Patti subconsciously twisted her finger where a wedding ring should have been and then pulled a necklace from beneath her sweater. A small diamond ring and a band hung from the chain.
“It doesn’t fit anymore. When I moved here I didn’t wear it. I didn’t owe anybody an explanation.” She dropped the ring back inside her dress. “But just for the record, I am married. Or was married.”
Mom nodded, holding Patti’s hand in hers.
“So, Renee, sometimes there is no finality. Sometimes you just have to start over.” They sat there for an uncomfortably long time. “Well now, at least you know my side of it,” Patti said at last.
“But what if you can’t escape the past?” Mom asked.
“We don’t escape it. We live through it and then we start over.”
“You left. You started over,” Mom pointed out.
“I did it for her. For me,” Miss Patti answered. Mom nodded. “And I didn’t say you had to leave,” Patti clarified. “You have more reasons to stay.“
“What if we don’t want to start over? Or we can’t? Or what if it feels like I’m just burying something?” Mom asked softly.
“You mean, like Joel?” Miss Patti asked.
“Yes.”
Rita came back downstairs fingering a heavy, oversized silver band. In capital letters across the bracelet read JEFFREY CARSON. Rita traced the letters with her finger. I guessed this was her only link to her father.
Rita slipped the bracelet over her tiny wrist, then extended her arm with the silver band dangling from it. Somehow we were united. She could understand. She had lost someone, too. Maybe she knew what it felt like to have a father who was missing in action. My comrade. Maybe she knew how subtraction emptied a family. And maybe she knew how our friendship was more than playing the Game of Life.
TWENTY-ONE
Early the next morning I awakened to the sound of Matt knocking on Miss Patti’s kitchen door. That was a first. I stood there in my pajamas wondering what he could possibly say to me at this hour. Maybe an apology?
“Get in the car, fast,” he whispered insistently.
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked. “After last night?”
“Dad is going for a run. Quick, we can follow him.”
“You really are crazy.” I shook my head. “It’s six a.m. and I just want to go back to bed.”
“Abby, don’t you want to know where he goes?” Matt asked. “I do.”
Actually there was a part of me that was curious. Dad always said “my usual route,” but no one ever knew what that was. But to get in a station wagon with Matt when the feeling of trying to throw myself out of it was still vivid?
“Abby. Please.” His words said, I need you. Help me. He wasn’t a bad driver when he wasn’t mad or trying to prove a point, and for some reason he wanted my help. He needed me.
“Let me get dressed first.”
“We don’t have time. He’s leaving. Just grab your slippers.”
The car was cold and I shivered as Matt put in the key.
“I’ll do better this time,” he promised.
“I should hope so.”
Matt killed the engine and restarted three times.
“Matt! Quiet! Someone is going to hear us!” Slowly we rolled out of the alley and toward the street.
“When Dad goes out the door, we’ll follow at least a block behind,” Matt said, focused on the road.
I felt like we were spies on a mission as we stalked him block by block. Occasionally we waited for Dad to gain a stronger lead, but I’m not sure it mattered. He seemed oblivious to everything.
Driving without a license was against the law, but I doubted many residents of Bethel Springs knew Matt’s age or qualifications. I waved my best beauty queen wave so that I looked like a happy traveler instead of a hostage.
Dad turned and headed outside of town, away from people. Traffic was light and when Matt drove slowly and stayed in first gear, he did pretty well.
“Not bad,” I admitted. Matt smiled at me and then look
ed in his rearview mirror. A few construction trucks came up behind and Matt pulled over on the shoulder to let them pass since we were only going about eight miles per hour. The car died and when Matt put it back into first, it made a terrible noise. I looked ahead but Dad had a long lead.
The road narrowed and fell off sharply to the right; Matt concentrated on keeping the car between the lines. We caught up within a quarter mile of Dad, never saying anything. I studied Matt, who was intent on trying to get everything right, his hands gripping the wheel. “Keep your eye on Dad, Abby,” he reminded me just as I watched his face change.
Matt swore under his breath.
“Matt, what is it?”
“I think I know where he’s going.” And then Matt’s stony silence.
“Where? What are you talking about?”
A dump truck and two garbage trucks came up behind us. The sign read 25 mph, but without a shoulder, we couldn’t pull over and let them pass. The truck driver laid on his horn and I looked ahead to see if Dad had noticed. “Matt, you have to speed up.”
“But then we’ll catch up to Dad.”
“Then turn around.”
“There’s no place!”
“Matt, do something!”
“I’m going to have to pass him.”
“But he’ll see us!”
“Or hear us.” Matt grimaced. He was right—if he sped up, he’d change gears and alert the world that an underage driver was stalking Dad.
The truck honked again. We had no choice. Matt put his foot on the clutch and we both took a deep breath as he shifted into second. We were gaining on Dad when Matt shifted into third. It was strangely silent as we passed him. I turned to see Dad’s reaction to his purple station wagon driven illegally by his only children.
If a bomb had gone off by the side of the road, I’m not sure he would have noticed. His face was frozen, his eyes in a trance, every muscle of his body moving forward to God only knows where.
Now we were ahead of him, and then I understood as I saw the gates to the cemetery. Matt pulled in and parked behind a tree.
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