The Day I Killed James

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  Which I suppose was a euphemistic way of saying we were hooked up with each other, that kind of modern lumping together of a guy and a girl. It manifests into all kinds of sick, impermanent shapes, this new category.

  But, was I James’s friend?

  I bet he thought so. I bet he trusted me to be at least that much.

  Journal Entry _________________________

  Day I’m writing this: Twenty-one days after “The Day”

  Day I’m writing about: Yesterday

  Yesterday evening I hitchhiked up the coast. I’ve been hitchhiking a lot lately. I’ve been tempting fate, to see if it wants to hurt me. Like walking down a dark street in a bad neighborhood with a bulging purse and a Rolex. Like, Here I am. Hurt me.

  Nothing went wrong.

  I got off about a mile south of the scene, even though the guy I rode up with could have driven me right to it.

  You can’t miss the spot now, because I put up a roadside cross with a wreath. Rainy season may take its toll, but it won’t be rainy season again for nearly a year. I slept on a little patch of cold dirt on the hill side of the road. Had the dream again.

  Roaring at that cliff, doing about sixty, with the engine noise in my ears, and then I shoot off over the edge and everything goes silent. The bike falls away. Just hanging there in the sky in the dark. Even though I don’t suppose the engine would stall, really, just because the ground fell away. I figure he heard it all the way down. Fell with it. But in the dream, all went silent in the dark, and I did not immediately fall. Like a cartoon character who has to notice first. Notice that the ground is gone before gravity becomes the law.

  The fall was sudden, and I jolted awake.

  I rediscovered myself by the side of the cold road, within walking distance of nothing.

  I’m never sure if the person in the dream is James or me.

  The moon was a crescent setting over the water, yellowish and indistinct. I wanted James to be somewhere near, but I couldn’t feel him. But, see, I was still wanting him to do for me. That’s how selfish I know I am.

  A car came around the curve. Stopped, cut its lights, and two guys got out. I felt it in my stomach. I had asked for this. Too late to unask for it now. They weren’t much older than me, maybe twenty. They stood over me.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t see a car. You got a car?”

  “Not close.”

  “Need a ride?”

  “No. I’m okay here.”

  They looked at each other in the dark. Good Samaritans. The Universe just will not do it to me. They sat down, one on either side.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I started to cry. That’s embarrassing. I hate that. I don’t even like to cry when I’m alone. That’s a bad deal all the way around. Where was my suit of armor when I really needed it? Plus, so far as I could tell, I still couldn’t fly.

  One of them put an arm around my shoulder.

  I told them everything. I confessed.

  They drove me to San Simeon, where I could make a phone call. Figure my way home. I had money and my father’s credit card, which no one had the good grace to steal from me.

  Just as I was waving goodbye to them, the driver leaned out the window. He said, “You know, I’ve had girls do me worse than that.”

  I assume he was trying to be helpful.

  But it’s like saying, People fire guns at other people all the time. And lots of their intended targets are still alive.

  Still, if you hit someone, you’re responsible.

  Maybe I’m too good an aim.

  TWO

  Shark Bait

  Randy was planning something. How did I know? Because I knew him. Because after seven months, you can see things coming. And I knew it was going to be soon, because things were way too good between us. That always made him nervous.

  And also, he’d been extra sweet lately, which is a bad sign.

  I figured probably he’d tell me he was thinking of trying for a college out of town. Case Western in Cleveland or some shit like that. Or he’d say he needed more space, not quite so trite on the wording but that’s what it’d add up to. Or maybe he’d say we should take a vacation from this thing. Or, God forbid, start seeing other people.

  He does this now and then. All hell breaks loose. I spend a few weeks crying and asking him to reconsider, and that convinces him that I still care. When things are too quiet between us he forgets that I care.

  So he backs off. He isn’t really going to college in Cleveland. He only thought he needed a vacation until he realized how much he needed me.

  Then things are good for a while, like they are now. Which is a really bad sign.

  Yes, of course there’s part of me that wants to get off this ride.

  Along which lines I made a decision. I was not going to play the game this time. I even talked it over with Frieda. Who said, “Oh, whoa. This should be totally interesting. Tell me every detail. Whoa. Big stuff.”

  Maybe she didn’t think I had it in me.

  This time I was going to say, Okay, Randy. Fine. I will e-mail you every day in Cleveland. And as far as seeing other people, James will be happy to hear we’ve made that decision. James. You do so know who he is. My cute, older next-door neighbor. You know, the one who’s so crazy about me? I can’t wait to tell him the good news.

  How Randy would handle all of this, I honestly didn’t know. But this whole pattern of his, it was beginning to smack of a bluff. And what is a bluff for, if not to be called?

  And besides, now Frieda was so hot on the idea I couldn’t very well back out.

  So anyway, on the morning in question I was still asleep. I was having this dream about a shark. I was just minding my own business, floating around in the ocean on my surfboard.

  Actually, I don’t have a surfboard. Actually, I’ve never surfed in my life, but dreams are like that.

  I was sitting up on this thing, straddling it, my legs hanging into the water. Feeling the slight roll of the ocean. All very serene.

  Then I looked down and saw it roaring at me at hundreds of miles per hour. About the size of a bus. I could only see a shadow of it, a gray outline, which actually made it worse. Ducking was out of the question. No time. Also no place to go. If he wants you, he’s got you.

  Then something propelled me out of sleep. Almost from there to the ceiling.

  Well, probably at no time did my body leave the bed, but that was how it felt.

  I sat up a second, trying to breathe. Full flight response, my heart pounding. And then it happened again, and I realized it was the phone.

  It was only about seven a.m.

  It was Randy.

  He said, “You know that party at Frieda’s? Don’t get weirded out. But I thought I might go with Rachel Lindstrom. I mean, I know you figured we’d go, but it was just sort of an assumption, right? I mean, we didn’t talk it out or anything. And we always do, so this’ll just be sort of…different. You know?”

  Long silence on the line. I just sat there on my surfboard like a sitting-duck fool. Here’s what he said next. This is the shark attack in a nutshell.

  “We never really talked about seeing other people. So I figured it wasn’t…like…if we didn’t say we couldn’t, then…”

  Well, not a concise nutshell. But that’s the short version.

  There was something I was going to do about all this. When it happened. What was that great plan again?

  “Um…can I call you right back?”

  Another very weird silence, and then I gently set the phone back in its cradle. Why gently, I don’t know. I just remember thinking how bizarre it was, that even in my sleep I had seen that one coming.

  I called Frieda right away. Knowing her, she might even have been up. I just hoped I didn’t get one of her parents. They were both heavy drinkers. Maybe they’d be in a bad mood if I woke them. Then again, maybe waking them was an impossibility.

  Three rings.
>
  “Oh, pick up your damn phone, Frieda!”

  She obeyed immediately.

  Frieda’s voice, like a glass of cool water. “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

  “He says he’s coming to your party with Rachel Lindstrom.”

  “Whoa. How long has this been going on?”

  “He didn’t say it was going on. He didn’t say anything was going on. It was more like…a potential something. Like something…maybe could. Go on. He didn’t say it was. Already.”

  It was dawning on me—the more I denied this—that I was in denial about this.

  “And you said so be it and thanked him for his honesty. Right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh God. What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘I’ll call you back.’ And then I called you.”

  “Call him back and tell him to do whatever he needs to do.”

  “But then he will.”

  “And if you tell him not to, he will anyway.”

  “God, I hate you, Frieda.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie. Good luck.”

  He picked up on the first ring.

  “Okay, Randy. Thanks for your honesty. What do we do now?”

  “Um…” I could tell that was not the onslaught he had been prepared to counter. “I guess we try being apart for a while.”

  I could hear in his voice that this was hard for him, which made it hard for me. If he had done these things toyingly, like a house cat that’s caught itself something helpless, that would be one thing. But this obviously came from such a depth of sincere pathology that I felt sorry for him, and for a moment I almost forgot to feel sorry for myself. Almost.

  “So we’ll both just be seeing someone else.”

  “Excuse me?” His voice changed. As if someone had slapped him for a transgression not yet identified. “You met someone, too?”

  “Well, you know. James.”

  “James?” he said. Loudly. I had struck a nerve. Good. “James? How could you be interested in James? He’s about twenty.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “He’s older. He’s like…twenty-two? He isn’t even your age. He’s like…”

  “Here’s a lesson for you, Randy, since you’ve obviously been out of touch with the dating scene too long. An older guy is not the liability you make it out to be.”

  He sulked for a moment in silence.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” he said.

  I laughed out loud. Probably just a release of tension. “You forgot who started this.”

  He hung up the phone.

  Frieda would be proud of me. On the outside, that had looked pretty good. On the inside, life as I had known it was at least seriously wounded. Bleeding and on fire. If not DOA.

  Okay. There’s a lot to know about Frieda’s place, her parents. Her living situation. It’s a lot to fill in as I go, but here’s trying.

  Frieda lives at the end of my street, but the end of my street is nearly a mile down. The houses on my street are just that. Houses. Not ranches or farms or acreage. But when you get to the end of the street, there’s Frieda’s place. And it’s a ranch. We live close to the edge of town.

  It used to be a working horse ranch. Frieda’s father used to be a successful horse trainer. Now he’s only successful at drunkenness. Good thing the place is all paid for.

  There are no longer any horses on this ranch. But there’s a barn. A very big, empty barn. With a little room upstairs that I guess was designed to house a stable hand. And about twenty stalls that always seem lonely to me. I think stalls get lonely without horses.

  This barn is where we intend on having our party. And the theme of the party is ever so simple. No more high school. Ever. We are graduating and getting out and that’s good.

  This barn is also where I got drunk on tequila shooters following Randy’s shark call.

  We were not in the barn to hide our drinking from her parents. This time of the evening you wouldn’t need to hide a herd of elephants from her parents. They go into their own little country early on. It’s sad.

  So we were up on the bed in that little upstairs barn room. Frieda’s dog, Leevon, was lying in between us, on his back, with all four feet sticking up. He’s a cool dog, Leevon. Kind of like a border collie, only not really. All white except for a patch of black on one eye. He’s my bud.

  I said, “Why are we not in the house again?”

  She said, “Because there’s no phone out here.”

  “Oh. Okay.” So far there was no alcohol in play. “Why is that a good thing again?”

  “Because I don’t want you to call Randy.”

  “I’m not going to call Randy.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Why did you do that every time before?”

  This is when I felt myself suddenly overcome with depression. The whole world felt very hopeless. This is also when I said the following regrettable thing. “I want to get drunk.”

  She looked at me like I was from Mars. Normally I knew I was not. On that particular evening it was not outside the realm of possibility.

  “You don’t drink.”

  “I could make an exception.”

  “You hate people who drink. You think drinking is stupid.”

  “I think I might have been waiting for just such an occasion.” A pause. “I might not be able to come to your party.”

  “You can’t miss the party. It’s going to be the biggest thing ever. Don’t let Randy make you miss that.”

  “I don’t think I can handle it.”

  “Invite James. That’ll teach him.”

  “I don’t want to do that to James. It would be using him.”

  “From what little I know of James, he might see that as a good thing.”

  “I need more time to think about this.” What I needed was everything back to normal. And/or a stiff drink. “I was serious with what I said about the drunk thing.”

  She shrugged. Then she went off in the direction of the house to see what her parents had lying around. In retrospect I can tell you it was tequila. At the time it could have been anything. And everything.

  The minute she left, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket. Called Randy.

  “Randy, listen,” I said. “I can’t keep doing this. This is too hard. This just hurts too much every time. If you want to be with me, be with me. Call her right now and tell her it’s over.” But that was a shock to my careful system of denial. I didn’t want it to be over, I wanted it to never have begun. “I mean, tell her it’s not going to start. That there’ll never be anything. If you do that, come over after. Come over tonight so I can look into your eyes and see you really did it. If you don’t come over, then I don’t want to see you or talk to you again.”

  “Theresa, I—”

  “I mean it, Randy. I can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry.”

  “Do I get to say anything?”

  “Only after I hang up.”

  And I did.

  I looked over at Leevon. He was doing that thing he sometimes does, where he puts one paw over his muzzle like he’s trying to cover his eyes. But I have no doubt that this was purely coincidental.

  Or not much doubt, anyway.

  Journal Entry _________________________

  Day I’m writing this: Twenty-two days after “The Day”

  Day I’m writing about: Today

  I found another clipping. A teenage girl in Utah. Had her driver’s license for three weeks, and she was driving down the highway, changing the radio station. Before she could look up again, she drifted over and killed a cyclist riding on the shoulder.

  It’s still not quite what I’m looking for.

  I mean, nobody would say, You son of a bitch, how could you do something so callous as to change a radio station?

  I’m still looking for somebody who was guilty of something really bad when it happened. Somewhere in the world, just one
person as awful as me.

  We could form a support group.

  They have those “Women Who Love Too Much” groups. We could form a “Women Who Blame Themselves” group. We could help each other blame ourselves.

  Dr. Grey is no good for that at all.

  Speaking of Dr. Grey, today was my fifth session.

  I asked him a question.

  I said, “Did love become very dangerous that day? Or did it always have that potential and I just didn’t notice?”

  It seems to please him, that I ask questions now. It’s almost like talking. Almost like therapy.

  “It always had the potential.”

  “Then why do we all use it so lightly?”

  “We drive cars lightly, and cars kill people all the time.”

  “Not that teenage girl in Utah. She doesn’t drive lightly. I bet she doesn’t drive now at all.”

  “Maybe she drives carefully. Maybe she’ll drive carefully for years, and nobody will get hurt. And after a while she may relax a little bit.”

  “Not completely, though.”

  “No,” he admitted. “Not completely.”

  It seemed potentially significant to me that Dr. Grey and I agreed about something.

  Journal Entry _________________________

  Day I’m writing this: Twenty-three days after “The Day”

  Day I’m writing about: “The Day”

  Right after I killed James—before I knew I had yet—I spent a lot of the day thinking what I’d say to him when he got home.

  Maybe he wouldn’t have been speaking to me. He might have been furious with me, or just depressed with himself in general.

  I would have applied for his forgiveness in triplicate. It might have taken a couple of years to come through. But, eventually, we might have been friends again. Or for the first time, I’m not sure. But then the Highway Patrol showed up and I slowly realized that he’d just frozen all that.

  Now we’re locked in that moment forever, like breaking a clock at one-fifteen, and no matter how much time goes by it’s always one-fifteen according to that clock. That whole process of understanding has been taken out of my reach.