by Kim Holden
Holding the phone to my ear, I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to offer false hope and I know Paxton; I don’t think he’ll show for lunch, but I can’t bring myself to say it, so I say, “Tell him I said hi. And to call me.” I usually hear from him every day, but I don’t want her to know that.
She sighs, and I can hear the doubt through the phone, I can practically feel it. She doesn’t want to be doubtful. She wants to be optimistic. She dreams of optimism, like little girls dream of princesses and happily-ever-afters. But at heart, she’s a reluctant fatalist. Disease drives her fate. It’s the reason Paxton refuses to be around her. “I will,” she says, finally. She’s trying, and failing, to smile. I can hear it in the fluctuations in her voice.
In an attempt to cheer her up, I add, “Oh, and stop at Sweet Treats on the way home from Pasqual’s and eat a slice of carrot cake cheesecake for me.” Jane loves carrot cake cheesecake, and it always cheers her up. Me too. At least once a month we’d take a trip to Sweet Treats and drown any bad feelings in cheesecake. It’s the cure for just about anything, at least for a little while.
Her voice brightens. “I will. I haven’t gone since you’ve been away, you know. I think it’s time.”
I offer reassurance in a nod she can’t see. “It’s definitely time.”
She changes the subject. “How’s everything going with you?”
I shrug. “Same. Eight more weeks. I’ve got this.” I do. I have to.
“You can do anything Scout. Anything you put your mind to.” She’s always encouraged me … and only me. Almost like she’s living vicariously, making up for all of the bad choices and the things she hates about herself. It makes me feel sorry for her. I’ve always felt that she’s one of those people who never realized they have potential, or the power to create potential. Life merely happens to her, but she doesn’t live it. She doesn’t participate.
“Thanks, Jane. Well, you better go get ready for your lunch date.” I don’t want to say what comes next, because if he’s a no-show she’ll be crushed. “Text or call me later and let me know how Paxton is doing.”
“Okay.” There’s already doubt and disappointment in her voice. I wish I could take it away for both of them.
A text comes in from Jane four hours later. Paxton didn’t show up.
My heart sinks and I don’t want to text back. I don’t want to acknowledge the hurt she’s feeling because then it’s real. But I do text back with the only thing I can come up with that’s genuine. I’m sorry.
She doesn’t reply. What’s she going to say anyway?
Saturday, April 29
(Scout)
I didn’t hear from Paxton yesterday. I know he’s hanging out with his friends since he’s home for a long weekend. He doesn’t get to go home often, so I know he’s busy, but I have to text him to check in on him. NYC this weekend?
The response is almost immediate. I go back to prison tomorrow night.
Having fun? God, I hope he is.
Hanging out with Cisco today. That’s a yes. Cisco is his one of his closest friends. They’ve known each other since they were five.
Good. Let me know when you get back to school tomorrow night. I like to know where he is and that he’s okay.
Sure thing.
Thursday, May 4
(Scout)
I hate to give Gustov credit for anything, but if there’s one thing endearing about him it’s how much he loves his mom. He talks to her on the phone every day. I never realized until yesterday that that’s who he calls every afternoon.
Every.
Afternoon.
I can’t help eavesdropping now. What rock star calls their mom every day? It makes him more human.
Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t like him. He’s just more like a real person, that’s all.
Five more weeks and I’m done with this.
Five.
More.
Weeks.
Friday, May 5
(Gus)
When I arrive back on the bus after soundcheck, there’s a stack of clean, folded laundry on my bunk. My sheets. And my clothes. All of them. Clean. Like, so clean I just want to bury my face in them and inhale for the next few hours because they smell like fucking sunshine. I haven’t washed my clothes since we’ve been on this tour. And I only have a few outfits. They were ripe.
Impatient walks out of the bathroom and catches me smelling a pair of socks. That’s when I put two and two together. “You washed my clothes, dude?”
She shrugs, but won’t meet my eyes. She never makes eye contact. “It smelled like something died over there. It was time. Like, two weeks ago it was time.”
As she’s talking, I see one of her sticky notes lying on my bunk next to the clothes. It reads: When your jeans can stand up on their own it’s time to wash them. You’re welcome.
I nod and go back to smelling the socks. They smell so damn good. “I know it’s not your job, but thanks.” I’m taking a visual inventory of my stockpile and notice there are twice as many pairs of underwear and socks as I used to have. “Hey, either my socks and drawers were going at it like rabbits at the laundromat and multiplying, or someone bought me more.” I turn and look at her questioningly.
She grabs her bag from her bunk and quickly heads for the door. “You can’t keep wearing the same underwear day after day without washing them. It’s disgusting,” she says bluntly. When she does talk she gets right to the point, but that damn voice softens the blow. It’s not just that it’s soft and feminine, but her voice is enticing, and serene even. I can’t put my finger on it, but I like listening to her.
She bought me socks and underwear?
She bought me socks and underwear.
“Who says I’ve been wearing any? I draw the line at manky skivvies. Commando’s been where it’s at for the past week.”
A look of disgust flashes across her face and she shakes her head.
And I know I’ve crossed a line. “Sorry. TMI. But, thanks, dude.”
“It was nothing. Really. I had to wash my clothes anyway. And those are WalMart socks and undies, nothing fancy. I used the company credit card.” Then she disappears out the door.
Maybe it was nothing to her. Maybe she did it because she couldn’t stand the stench anymore. She probably did it because she couldn’t stand the stench anymore. Whatever the reason, it was free of motive or the expectation of reciprocation. She was just being nice.
I fucking love nice.
Two points to Scout.
Wednesday, May 10
(Scout)
No show tonight. We’re driving across Texas and even though I’m trapped on the bus with the band, it’s a welcome change from our normal schedule. The guys are all doing their own thing—reading, listening to music, or on their laptops. Everyone’s plugged into their own little world. The silence is welcome.
I’ve been texting with Paxton for the past hour. For some reason we started quoting movies—our favorites lines, most of them funny. It started with random movie trivia that turned into a bizarre conversation using only movie quotes. We do bizarre well. He’s so smart and his recall is lightning-fast, which means he has me on my toes and thinking hard, digging deep for the next reply. It's fun. Before long he has to head off to a study session, so I start reading a new book I picked up at the truck stop this morning. It’s a murder mystery called The Cuckoo’s Calling, which isn’t something I would usually read, but the writing is spectacular. Maybe I need to branch out into new genres more often.
Gustov climbs down out of his bunk and then returns a few minutes later and climbs back up. It’s not enough of a distraction that I stop reading, but I’m aware of his movements.
The silence is broken by the tearing of plastic wrap, followed by what can only be a jar opening. Suddenly the scent of peanut butter hits me. Like a punch to the nose it hits me. I love peanut butter. And now that it’s invading my senses, I’m ravenous. I would kill for a peanut butter sandwich.
&nb
sp; Apparently I’m not the only one lured in by the smell of Gus’s snack because Franco calls out, “Hey, pass me a few of those, dipshit.”
My peripheral vision picks up motion, an exchange of food. Anything involving peanut butter sets my sense of smell to overdrive. I would pay for a spoonful.
As if he can read my mind, I see Gustov’s big hand extended down at me from across the aisle. “Want one?”
There are two saltine crackers lying in the palm of his hand, a tiny cracker sandwich with peanut butter filling. I lean out of my bunk further to get a better look.
“You want one?” he offers again.
It’s a mouthwatering sight. I don’t know why I’m hesitating, but I’m hesitating. He’s trying to be nice and all I can meet it with is suspicion. It’s a trained reaction. I wish I could just meet nice with nice. So, I make an effort. “What is it?” I mean, I know what it is, but I’ve never seen anyone eat saltines and peanut butter together.
“It’s only the tastiest snack known to man. You need one. Seriously. Take it.”
I do and I back burner the suspicion for the moment. “Thanks.”
I take a bite, and yeah, it’s the tastiest snack known to man. Or woman. Before I finish it I already want another one, despite the crumbs I’m leaving in my bed.
“You can’t stop at just one,” he says. His hand reappears, and there are two little heavenly sandwiches in his palm this time.
I smile though he can’t see my face, and take them. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve got a whole sleeve of crackers. Let me know when you’re ready for another one. Oh yeah,” he pauses, holding out a bottle of grape juice, “and I’ve got grape juice, too, if you need to wash ‘em down. Nothing goes better with crackers and PB than grape juice.”
I shake my head again, but I’m smiling. “What are you, five years old?”
Franco laughs from his bunk.
“Pretty much. At heart anyway.” Gustov doesn’t sound offended. There’s wholehearted agreement in his voice.
My snarky comment just turned into a compliment with his admission. It softens me a little to him. “No thanks. I’ve got some water.”
“Suit yourself.” He hands me two more crackers.
I eat them. And as I chew, I think: this snack is like an olive branch he’s just extended without even realizing it.
Saturday, May 13
(Scout)
I'm up early. We’re in Tennessee. I’ve already gone for a run and showered, and I’m going to find a laundromat while everyone is still sleeping. As I’m stripping the sheets off my bunk and quietly putting them and my clothes into my duffle bag, I jump when someone taps me on the shoulder.
When I turn, Gustov is leaning out of his bunk. I see his lips moving, he must be whispering because I can’t hear him. I hold up a finger to stop him before he finishes. “Hold on.” I open up my bag and take out the case that holds my hearing aid. After inserting it in my left ear, I say, “Sorry, what?”
He stares at me for a minute, like he's been caught off guard. “So, you don’t wear one in your right ear?” he asks.
It was a completely innocent question, but it brings heat to my cheeks. I point at my right ear. “This one doesn’t work at all.”
I assume he’ll ask more questions or look shocked, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “You going to wash clothes?” He’s not whispering anymore even though everyone is sleeping.
I nod and return to my duffle bag.
“Mind if I come with you? I need to start making this cleanliness thing a weekly habit.”
I shrug, because I know he’s going to come no matter what I say. “I can take yours with me. It’s no big deal. You don’t need to come.” The truth is that I don’t really want him to come. I prefer to be by myself. And I’m a little embarrassed now that he knows about my hearing aid. And what if he gets recognized while we’re out? I hate drawing attention to myself. Hate it. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Talking to him on this bus is one thing, but talking to him out in the real world is another.
He comes along anyway. The good news is that he’s stone sober, which might be a first.
The laundromat isn’t far, so we decide to walk. On the way, we duck inside a Dutch-themed bakery for some coffee, and Gustov strikes up a conversation with the friendly woman behind the counter. I envy how easy it is for him—talking to a stranger like they’re old friends. I’ve never been able to do that. Gustov pays for both coffees and tips her ten dollars. She gives us each a flaky pastry she calls a “Dutch letter”, and tells us to have a nice day.
After we step outside, Gustov’s pastry is gone in three bites. He’s wearing the wide eyes of a child when he swallows the last of it. “Holy shit, Dutch letters are the motherfucking real deal. We’re stopping there on the way back to the bus and buying more. Like every last one Debbie has.”
I noticed the woman’s name tag, because I’m obsessive about taking in every last detail, but I didn't think it’s something Gustov would have noticed. I’m surprised. And I have to agree with him about the Dutch letters. They’re delicious. “Yeah, we should probably buy some for everyone else.”
“Who said for everyone else? I’m going to sustain myself solely on these luscious little almond-filled pieces of heaven for the next few days.” He winks so I know he’s kidding. Sort of. I have no doubt he could put away a dozen of them.
Upon arrival at the laundromat, Gustov proceeds to empty the entire contents of his bag into one machine. It’s filled to beyond capacity. I’m standing next to him, sorting my clothes and bedding on a folding table. I stop what I’m doing and look repeatedly from the machine to his face, and back to the machine questioningly.
He senses my evident dismay.
I look again from his face to the burdened machine, and back up at him. My eyes always stop on his beard, because I can’t meet his eyes. Eye contact at close range is uncomfortable with most people. And I don’t know how to explain it, but I don’t want to look in eyes and see scrutiny. I don't want to see him staring at my scars. Most people talk to my scars, not to my eyes. I’m as used to it as I suppose a person can ever be. I don’t want to be my scars to him … or anyone.
He lifts his hands, palms upward, in a questioning manner. “What, dude?”
Shaking my head, I ask, “Have you ever done your own laundry?”
He bobs his head up and down as he answers. “Of course.”
I doubt that. “Ever heard of sorting?” I don’t know why this is so irritating to me. It’s probably because I’m overanalyzing everything and it’s messing with my head. Why can’t I just have a normal conversation?
“That takes too much damn time. It all gets clean either way,” is his defense.
I begin pulling his clothes out of the machine. “Well, you’re also going to kill this machine if you put this many clothes in.” After they’re all removed, I sort them into my piles. Gustov stands back, arms crossed, making no effort to stop me. I also note that he’s smirking.
After our clothes are in three separate machines, I sit down and open my mystery novel while he runs back down to the bakery. The quietude is unexpected for a laundromat. Usually they’re busy and dirty and loud. This one’s not any of those things. Just as the clothes finish the rinse cycle, he returns with three boxes of pastries.
After we find three open dryers, Gustov pulls a small cardboard box out of his bag. “Wanna play a game?” he asks, as he slides a wooden box out of the packaging.
My curiosity is piqued. “You want to play a game?”
He shrugs. “Sure. We’ve got nothing but time.” He glances at the dryer behind us. “Forty-seven minutes to be exact. More than enough time for a few rounds of Mancala.”
“Mancala?”
“Yeah, Mancala,” he says. He looks at me quizzically. “Please don’t tell me you’ve never played Mancala. We need to remedy that ASAP if that’s the case.”
“Never heard of it.”
He opens the woo
den box, which turns out to be a folded game board hinged in the middle. He starts distributing flat marbles in equal numbers into circular indentions on both sides of the box. “I used to play this with friends all the time,” he explains. “I saw it at the truck stop yesterday and had to buy it. It’s been a few years and I’m jonesing for some Mancala.”
Paxton and I played board games a lot when we were younger, but it’s been years. My first instinct is to say yes, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m agreeing. What the hell has gotten in to me?
He explains the rules, and we play. It’s a fairly simple game of moving the marbles around the board and trying to capture more marbles than your opponent, but there’s definitely some strategy involved. He beats me. So we play another round. He beats me again. And he taunts me this time when he does it. We play a final round, and this time victory is mine. I’m not shy about rubbing his nose in it, either. I feel like I’m playing with Paxton. And it's actually relaxing. I smile to myself, because even though I prefer to be alone, this whole morning has been kind of perfect in a weird, unexpected, unplanned way. I’m usually very organized, but this was spontaneous, and, well … nice.