Spinning Out

by David Stahler Jr.

  “Well, he was in his father’s shop, but I think I saw him drive out about an hour ago. I’ll tell him you called.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll just try him on his cell.”

  “He doesn’t have it with him,” she said, hesitating. “He stopped using it, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “He says they’re not safe. Trust me, we went through it all last week. He was quite convincing.”

  “Okay,” I said. “How’s he doing, anyway?”

  She paused. “It’s been a rough day. He’s so spent from the performances. It’s good he’s taking a few days off. He needs the time to recover.”

  Taking a few days off. She made it sound like he was on vacation. I wondered if she even knew he was suspended.

  “Well, tell him I’d like to see him later.”

  It was around nine o’clock that night when I got my wish. I was still tired as hell and was just about ready to turn the TV off and go to bed early when I heard a heavy pounding at the front door. I flipped on the porch light to see Stewart standing there on the steps in full costume, arms folded, his head down, the replacement prop sword hanging from his belt. He banged again, hard, steady, and I suddenly couldn’t help thinking I should have wished for something else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “There you are, Sancho!” He burst past me into the house. The temperature had dropped, and he was shivering in his armor.

  I plopped down at the kitchen table and kicked out a chair for him, but he ignored it. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting all night for you to call me.”

  “Well, wait no longer. Get up! Get up! Get dressed, for God’s sake.” He was all wound up, pacing the floor, fidgeting with his wig. “And stop this Stewart foolishness. You don’t know when to quit. None of you. None of you do.”

  I stood up, coming around to look him in the face. He had all the makeup on, the prosthetics, but I could see his eyes well enough. There it was—the same look he’d had at the smoking rock. His eyes were wide, liquid.

  I put my hands on his shoulders. “Don Quixote’s gone, Stewart. It’s over.”

  He stepped away from me and waved a hand in front of his face. “We have to go.”

  “Go? Go where? It’s late.”

  “Adventure awaits, Sancho. Pack your things. I’ve got it all planned out.”

  “Got what planned out, Stewart?”

  “We ride west. West, west, west. There’s trouble in the land, no doubt about it. We must find it, face it, defeat it.”

  “Yeah, and be back in time for breakfast, right?” I shook my head and looked down at my thumb. The cut had long since healed, but a nasty scar remained.

  “Breakfast? Surely you jest. There is no going back, Sancho. That’s the best part, don’t you see? We get to get away from him. From him and them. They’ll never bother us again,” he said. His face fell. “I’ve had it with them. There’s no beating them.”

  I started to reach for him again, then stopped and brought my hands up to my head instead, pulling back my hair.

  “Why are you doing this to me, Stewart? Why can’t you just let go?”

  He grabbed my peacoat off the back of the kitchen chair and tossed it to me. I tossed it back.

  “No, Stewart,” I said. “We’re not going anywhere. You promised me that you’d do something about this. You said you were taking care of it.”

  “Put it on, Sancho. Your beautiful coat. Put it on. It’ll protect you.”

  He lifted the coat toward me, as if to try to put it on me. I pushed him away.

  “You said you were taking care of it. You promised.”

  “It’ll keep you safe from the cold. It’s so cold. So goddam cold out there, you have no idea.”

  As he lifted the coat a second time, I snatched it from his hands and threw it across the room. I stepped toward him, my finger in his face.

  “You promised me, Stewart! You fucking promised!”

  He backed away, his eyes wide, until he hit the counter, knocking over a glass in the process. It rolled off the edge, hit the floor, and shattered. We both jumped at the sound. I looked down at the shards scattered across the linoleum, gleaming under the kitchen light, and shook my head again.

  “You promised.”

  “I tried,” he wailed. “It didn’t work. I spent hours, but I didn’t dare do more.”

  More what? There it was again—that sick feeling in my belly. I was supposed to do something, say something to make it right. I had to be a good Sancho. But the play was over, and I didn’t want to be Sancho anymore.

  I could hear the TV in the living room, the sound of the canned sitcom laugh track rising and falling in distant waves. I hated that sound like I hated those shows. They had complications but they were trivial, with easy resolutions and happy endings. Nothing like real life. Nothing like this.

  Stewart had given up on the coat and started pacing again.

  “Listen,” I said. “It’s not too late. I can call Mr. Bryant right now. He’s a really smart guy. He’ll know what to do. He can help us.” I started for the phone.

  Stewart drew his sword with a flourish. I jumped back and felt something sharp bite into my heel.

  “Ow! Fuck!” I leaned against the refrigerator and lifted my foot. A half-inch shard of glass was embedded in the skin. I yanked it out with a yelp. Immediately the blood started to run. I looked up at Stewart, but it seemed he hadn’t even noticed.

  “Enough!” he boomed. Swaying a little, he brought down his sword and leaned upon it like a cane. “Any more of this disobedience, Sancho, and I shall have to beat you. You know I don’t want to do that, so please be a good fellow and stop with all this nonsense.”

  As he spoke, one of his eyebrows began to detach. He reached up and pressed it back, but it continued to flop.

  “Drat!” he yelled. He strode by me and headed to the bathroom. I followed, hopping on one foot, trying not to get blood on the hallway carpet.

  “Come on, Stewart. Just stop it. This isn’t funny anymore.”

  He leaned over the sink, bringing his face right to the mirror, and began fiddling with the eyebrow. He glanced over at me.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Where are your things?”

  “Stewart, stop.”

  “Oh, and pack some food. We’ll no doubt need refreshment before the night is out.”

  “Stewart, you have to stop this. You have to come back.”

  “Come back?” he demanded. “Come back where?”

  “To reality, Stewart.”

  “Reality?” He finally got the eyebrow to stick, then turned toward me. “I know reality when I see it. I define reality. Everything else is just shadows and dreams, shadows and dreams. The world you live in—that’s the illusion, my dear Sancho. You know nothing of reality, you stupid peasant. You know nothing of it.”

  This time I grabbed him. Grabbed him by his armor and started shaking.

  “No, Stewart! No more of this bullshit!”

  His eyes widened, the loose eyebrow fell off, his armor rattled, but I kept right on hollering.

  “You think I don’t know reality? You want to see reality, Stewart? You want to see it?”

  I pushed him up against the sink, then whirled around and snatched the floral painting off the wall.

  There it was, a large, uneven circle, pale brown under the fluorescent light, hovering on the wall like an evil nebula.

  “Know what that is? That’s reality, Stewart!” I shouted, grabbing him and pointing at the stain. “That’s the only fucking thing that’s real!”

  He started trembling and blinking like crazy, then sank to the floor and closed his eyes. I dropped down across from him.

  “I’m sorry, Sancho,” he whimpered. “I can’t stop it. I’m sorry.”

  “Why him?” I watched the blood seep from my heel and pool beneath my foot. Already it had begun to spread across the floor. I wanted to reach for the towel above me on the rack, but I was too
tired even to move. “Why Quixote? Just because he’s crazy doesn’t mean you have to be.”

  He shook his head. “Not because he’s crazy,” he cried. “Because he’s not afraid of them!” He grew quiet. “You know. You were there. Every day for weeks you were there. You saw how he charged them, how brave he was. I need that strength to make it through, to protect me from them.”

  “You mean the towers, don’t you?” I said. “Those fucking turbines.” I could see the tears start to trickle from the corners of his eyes.

  We were quiet for a long time.

  “How long?” I said at last. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Last year. Before your father came back, I started hearing them, talking to me, laughing. It was just in my dreams, at first. Then it wasn’t.”

  “Shit, Stewart. You need help. This is serious.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at me. “I don’t want that kind of help. I don’t want them inside my head. I can’t fit anyone else in there. Besides, I’ve got Don. Quixote will keep me safe.”

  “He won’t, Stewart. He’s making it worse. Ever since you started down that road, you’ve fallen farther away.”

  He shook his head. “I have to keep going.”

  “Well,” I said, looking up at the stain, “I can’t follow you.”

  He struggled to his feet. “I need you, Sancho. I can’t do it alone.” He reached out a hand to help me up. I didn’t take it.

  “You don’t have to do anything alone,” I said. “You just have to let me help you, let other people help you. Otherwise, it’s never going to go away. You’ll never escape them.”

  He shook his head. “Never,” he whispered.

  Then he was gone, and I was alone. Just me and the stain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After he left, I picked up the phone and called Kaela.

  “He can’t give it up,” I said. “He’s too scared.”

  “I’m so sorry, Frenchy,” she said. She paused. “What next?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all falling apart. I have to tell them. His parents. Mr. Bryant. Somebody will know what to do.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Stewart didn’t keep his promise. You don’t have to keep yours. Not anymore.”

  “I already broke it when I told you.”

  “Girlfriends don’t count.”

  “Girlfriend, huh? Wow. Not used to hearing that.”

  “I’m not surprised. Just be quiet before I change my mind,” she said. “And Frenchy, let me know if you need me. For whatever.”

  “Thanks, Kaela.”

  “I care about him too,” she said, then hung up the phone.

  Stewart’s car wasn’t in the driveway as I came upon Shangri La the next morning, though I could see his tracks in the dusting of snow that had fallen in the night. It was just as well—I hadn’t come to see him.

  I climbed the steps and rapped on the door a few times. My heart seemed to pound harder with every knock. I’d been up since five thinking about what to say, but it didn’t matter now.

  Mrs. Bolger opened the door without her usual little game.

  “Hello, Frenchy.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Bolger.” My voice was shaking. I wondered if she could tell. “Is Mr. Bolger home?”

  “Yes, he’s home,” she said, looking confused. “But Stewart’s not here, I’m afraid.”

  “Yeah, I see that. Do you know where he is?”

  “He said he had some things to take care of. To be honest, I thought he was going to pick you up for school. Do you need a ride?”

  “No thanks. I actually came to talk to you and Mr. Bolger. Can I come in?”

  She managed a faint smile, then stood aside.

  The Bolgers’ house always smelled good in the morning. Fresh coffee, fresh patchouli, fresh fruit, fresh bread. There was Mr. Bolger at the counter with the Globe. Just like it was any other day. His eyebrows crinkled at the sight of me.

  “What’s this?” he asked. He was especially warm and fuzzy in the morning.

  I stood there for a moment, trying to catch my breath. Finally, I let it out.

  “There’s something wrong with Stewart. Really wrong. He’s sick. He needs help.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Mrs. Bolger turned away toward the stove. Mr. Bolger glanced back down at his paper. At first I thought they were just going to pretend I wasn’t there, but finally Mr. Bolger spoke up.

  “Sit down, Frenchy,” he said. “Cup of coffee?”

  “Okay.” I took a seat at the table. Mrs. Bolger poured a cup and brought it over. The Bolgers drank their coffee black. Guess they thought everyone else did too.

  “So what makes you think Stewart’s sick? Has he complained about anything?”

  “I don’t mean sick that way. I mean, you know, mentally.” I hesitated. “He won’t stop being Don Quixote. He says he hears voices. It’s the wind towers. He thinks they’re after him.”

  Mr. Bolger shook his head. “Those goddam towers.” He looked over at me. “The problem with Stewart is that he’s exhausted. He’s been working himself to the bone these last few weeks. Between the play and this project he’s trying to finish up, it’s a wonder he’s still on his feet.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Listen,” he said. “I know Stewart’s been off his game lately, but don’t worry. He’ll straighten out. You know how he is.”

  “It’s just a phase,” Mrs. Bolger murmured.

  I shook my head. “No. No, it’s not. He came by last night. You should’ve heard him talk. It wasn’t Stewart. And it wasn’t the first time.”

  “Stewart’s got a good imagination,” Mr. Bolger said.

  “He always has,” Mrs. Bolger added. She gave a sad little smile.

  “The world just can’t accept creativity,” Mr. Bolger went on. “Anyone who’s different, anyone with a spark—forget it. They’re going to be misunderstood. Stewart’s right—that’s what Don Quixote’s all about. It’s probably why he was so good at the role.”

  “This is different, Mr. Bolger.” I tried not to let frustration creep into my voice. “It has nothing to do with creativity. He’s not in touch with reality.”

  I glanced across the table at Mrs. Bolger, wrapping and unwrapping a dishcloth around her hands, her mouth tight with fear. I knew the feeling. Hearing both of them, I started to get that sick sensation in my stomach all over again, just like last night. They exchanged a dark look.

  “You know,” I said at last. I turned back to Mr. Bolger. “Both of you know. You’ve heard him, too, haven’t you? Haven’t you!”

  Mr. Bolger leveled his gaze at me. “My son is not crazy,” he said. Mrs. Bolger brought the dishcloth up to her face and choked back a sob.

  “Look, can’t he just talk to someone? The school psychologist is really good.”

  “Stewart already talked to him,” Mrs. Bolger said.

  “Yeah, but maybe Mr. Bryant could try again.”

  “Try what again?” Mr. Bolger snapped. “I don’t want Stewart getting falsely diagnosed by some two-bit guidance counselor, not with college applications going out. You know the stakes, Frenchy. I won’t jeopardize his future. Maybe once the acceptances come in and Stewart’s settled on where he’s going, we can look into getting him some counseling. In the meantime, his mother and I can help him through this. All of us can.”

  Fucking Bolgers. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They were supposed to be all progressive and forward thinking. Forget that, they were supposed to be adults. They were supposed to be parents. They were supposed to eat up my fears and rush to Stewart’s aid and make everything all right.

  I shook my head. “I get counseling, Mr. Bolger. Trust me, Stewart doesn’t need a counselor. This is bigger than that. Bigger than any of us.” My voice was shaking even more now. I tried not to let it, but I couldn’t help it.

  Mr. Bolger’s look softened. He sighed and got up from his stool, then came over and put his hands on my sh
oulders. “You’ve had a rough year, Frenchy. After everything that happened with your father, I can understand why you might be worried. I appreciate the concern. We both do.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not going to do anything about it.”

  He sighed again. Mrs. Bolger just looked away, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Listen,” he said. “We’re going to Burlington today. When we get back tonight, we’ll sit down with Stewart and have a long talk and figure out how best to handle this.”

  More talk. More bullshit. My father had a saying: There’s talking, and then there’s doing. It suddenly seemed pretty clear to me there would be no doing. Not by them, at least. Not when it needed doing.

  “Okay then.” I got up from the table and headed for the door.

  “Can I give you a ride to school?” Mrs. Bolger asked.

  I looked down at my new watch. I was already late, but I didn’t give a shit. I couldn’t stand the idea of spending another minute with either of them.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”

  With the cut on my heel slowing me down, it took over a half hour to walk to school, and that was after someone stopped and gave me a ride the last mile to town. It was fine by me—I was so wound up leaving Shangri La, I needed to burn some energy. But I also hoped I’d meet Stewart along the way. Every time I heard a car up ahead, I quickened my pace, anxious to flag him down, but he never showed.

  Second period was drawing to a close by the time I walked into school. I headed straight for Bryant’s office without bothering to sign in and knocked on the door.

  “What’s wrong, Gerry?” he asked, searching my face as I stepped through the doorway.

  “I need to see you. Right now.”

  He nodded. “Hang on.”

  He told the student in his office to sit tight, then brought me down the hall to an empty conference room.

  “Go ahead,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  It all came out in a gush. Bryant didn’t say much; he just let me talk. After the Bolgers, it felt good to talk to someone who actually listened.

  “How long did you say this has been going on? I mean, the voices in particular.”