by J. C. Geiger
“But, boy,” Mary said. “You should see him paint.”
She walked back through the grass, stalks whispering against her legs.
“What now?” Lance asked.
“I’d call for a tow,” Dakota said. “Maybe get a different driver this time.”
“I feel bad taking my car somewhere else.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Dakota said. “He’s not a mechanic. He’s an artist.”
William hadn’t moved an inch, yet he was transformed. Dakota’s words had changed his appearance the way a photographer might, by adjusting the angle of the camera or the quality of light. His downturned eyes no longer looked defeated, but stoic. He was not lamenting the Buick, just considering colors. Dreaming up his next masterwork.
“You could draw him in your book,” Lance said.
“Oh yes.”
“If he’s an artist, then what are you?” Lance asked.
She smiled like she’d just been caught at something. She looked him over.
“Wardrobe consultant.”
Dakota moved her hair forward a little, curtaining off her eyes.
“Really,” he said. “It just hit me—I have no idea what you do all day.”
“I know,” she said. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Why?”
“Because then we don’t have to talk about it.”
She took a deep breath and patted her pockets, searching for something. He’d said it wrong, and now the answer was locked up inside her. The breeze blew salty-cool air across the field. The leaves chattered and Lance felt a sudden emptiness. There was so much he would never know about her. A sudden feeling of loss, wrapped up in his own name, and the way she’d whispered it the night before. He’d leave this place, and would never stop checking the rearview mirror. He’d be a thousand miles away, ten years older, looking back and asking a question that would not be What do you do all day?
It would be: Whatever happened to Dakota?
The lobby of Macland’s Auto Repair reeked of stale popcorn and burnt coffee baking on a hot plate. Off to one side there was a giant Plexiglas window where customers could ostensibly stand and observe auto mechanics in their natural habitat. Lance and Dakota decided to keep a field journal of their social and dietary habits. This blue-suited tribe communicated with grunts and profanity. Hierarchy was determined by tool size. Grooming habits, nonexistent. They subsisted on beef sticks and cans of carbonated corn syrup.
The guy assigned to work on Lance’s car was chugging on a Moody’s. They weren’t sure of the flavor until he picked up a clipboard and, deep in thought, stuck out his tongue. Purple. Bright as a permanent marker.
“It’s over,” Dakota said. “Get out now.”
“Maybe he just likes grape soda.”
She shook her head. “Lance. A purple tongue is the sign of the beast.”
He and Dakota were laughing too hard to notice how long things were taking. When Lance finally pried his phone out of his jeans, it was six p.m. and Miriam had called twice.
“Go ahead and call,” Dakota said. “I’ll watch the Buick. I will be strong and vigilant.”
Lance stepped outside. The hard afternoon light had gone a soft orange, and the windshields of cars shone like burnished copper. He took a long, deep breath. After his time in Macland’s, the air tasted sweet.
He’d come out to call Miriam. He dialed Jonathan instead.
“Well, hello there,” Jonathan said.
Jonathan never answered his phone. Lance waited, making sure this wasn’t a clever voice mail prank.
“Lance? Are you breathing at me? Or is this his murderer? You’ll never get away with this.”
“It’s me, man. Couldn’t hear you for a second.”
“No. Wait. Is this the Lance Hendricks?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, the one true Lance Hendricks?”
“Okay, enough.”
“Lancelot. Dude. How are you not back?”
That’s right. He was Lancelot.
“The car’s not fixed.”
“Really?” Jonathan said. “Still? I can’t believe you missed The Party! Such a riot. And the things I found in my parents’ bedroom getting it ready for you. I can’t unsee those things, Lance. My parents are perverse people. I can no longer look my own father in the eye.”
Lance laughed. “Sorry, man.”
“Really, I don’t get it. What’s going on? Are you hooked on amphetamines?”
“No.”
“Did your dad get ahold of you?”
“No, Jonathan.”
For any other friend, that would’ve been the end of the phone call. But Jonathan had been there the afternoon at the creek, the day his father had gone. When Lance kept breaking off to examine river rocks, any reason to stand alone and look down, so he could cry and not be seen. And Jonathan had seen him. He had put a hand on Lance’s back and had said It’ll be okay and You’ll get through this, and he had never told anyone about that, not ever.
“Do people think I’m with my dad?” Lance asked.
“There are some pretty wild stories.”
“Like?”
“Whisky shots. A knife fight. Did you hear me, Lance? A knife fight.”
“I just pulled a knife. I didn’t fight with it.”
Miriam. She’d told them. How long had they all laughed about that? His stomach was folding over, contracting. And he suddenly knew why he’d called Jonathan. He’d wanted to talk to someone who knew him. Really talk. About the train, the cemetery, The Float, Dakota. These jeans, and how it felt to be called Wildman. How crazy it all was! But Jonathan couldn’t hear him either. Like Miriam and his mother. The wrong groove. The same empty hiss.
“I should really call Miriam,” Lance said.
He made his excuses and got off the phone. In his chest, a feeling that said this was a bad time to call Miriam, but there he was, making the call. She answered right away, on the second ring. He wasn’t ready. He could’ve used one more ring.
“Lance?”
“Yeah, hi.”
“Well,” she said.
“What?”
“What happened last night? Did you forget your charger?”
“Miriam, I—”
“Seriously, Lance. Should I be moving on? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Moving on?” he said. “I’ve only been gone three days.”
“I haven’t heard from you in twenty-four hours.”
“We’ve been together two years!”
“Where are you now?”
“Another repair shop. The first one was a total disaster.”
“Yes,” Miriam said. “This has been a total disaster.”
“You know,” he said, “I don’t appreciate you telling all our friends I’m making up stories.” He inhaled. Exhaled. He needed to breathe.
“I didn’t say you were making them up,” she said. “I let the stories speak for themselves.”
“Well guess what? I got wasted and jumped on a moving train last night. What do you think of that?”
Silence.
“Is that true?”
“Who knows, Miriam? Who knows.”
“This is dumb,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s dumb that you’re choosing your car over us.”
“It’s not,” he said. “Don’t you want us to have a car next year? Don’t you want to take weekend trips?”
“Yeah, but we’re going to be busy, Lance. College isn’t like high school.”
“Yeah? College sounds boring.” The word boring, which he had not expected to say, crystallized the deep, impalpable dread he’d been feeling all year. More tests, more teachers, more deadlines. Oregon State University sounded boring. And yet, all these words he’d been tossing out like candy from a parade float:
I’m really looking forward to it.
It’s great. I can live at home a few years, so I don’t have any debt when I graduate.
My girl
friend is going to OSU, which is perfect.
“College sounds boring,” Miriam repeated.
“Yeah,” Lance said. “That’s right.” Silence. Across the street, a crow settled on a power line. There were five lines total, parallel and evenly spaced. One black dot of a crow. The bird ruffled its feathers and scolded him. A small flock landed. A dozen small bodies, staggered in a way that looked familiar.
“Are you having a midlife crisis?” Miriam asked.
“I’m eighteen.”
“I know. But you’ve always been advanced.” Beyond the crows, spires of evergreens, ferns on a hillside. There were people living behind those trees, down that road, beyond where he could see. Hundreds of thousands of lives tucked back in the bushes, in places he’d never even thought about.
“You’re scared,” she said. “You’re running away.”
“I’m not running,” Lance said.
“Yes, Lance. You are.”
“Miriam. Please.”
“It’s like something your dad would do.” Lance spiked his phone into the grass. Miriam had never met his father. She’d only heard stories. He walked to the nearest smallish tree. He grabbed it, throttled the trunk, kicked bark until it chipped. He was sweaty, breathless.
In the grass, his phone vibrated. He went back into Macland’s without it.
Dakota was standing, waiting for him.
“You okay?” she said.
“Yeah. Why?”
“That little tree must’ve said something.”
“Right,” Lance said. “Funny.”
“But I’ve got bad news.”
“What?”
“There are at least five more little trees out there. I think they just showed up.”
Lance looked outside. There were a lot of them.
“We’d better make a break for it,” Lance said.
“About that,” she said. “More bad news.”
“What?”
“Your car’s not ready.”
Back in the shop, beyond the Plexiglas, the lights were off. Mechanics, tucked somewhere out of sight.
“That figures,” Lance said.
They left and Macland’s door locked shut behind them. The sun had just vanished, and the air was already cooler.
“Hey.” She took a deep breath, looked up. “Does this mean we get one more night?”
“Yeah.” Lance smiled and looked at her. “One more night.”
“Okay. You get your phone. I’ll get my car. We’ll meet right here.” She pointed to the ground.
“Right here,” Lance said, pointing.
Lance picked up his phone from the grass. The tree’s bark, scuffed and chipped. He was no longer angry. He couldn’t even remember angry. Every poisonous, simmering thing in his blood had gone tingly, and waiting for Dakota felt like warming up in the orchestra pit on opening night. The tuning up of instruments. That awful, giddy flutter before a show.
Dakota’s engine fired and her headlights swung around. She was coming. Twenty minutes alone in a car with Dakota, about to happen. This rare gift of a moment. She was a silhouette when she parked. She popped open the passenger door and the dome light turned her three-dimensional. Eyes, electric. Hair, spilling down.
“Need a ride?” she asked.
One more night.
Dakota, on the other side of the console.
Breathing, like it was something people just did.
Normally, he would’ve talked about his plans, logistics, what he needed to do next—the way his mother and Miriam liked to talk—but being with Dakota was like dreaming. Different things mattered in dreams. So he didn’t talk about his plans at all. Words vanished with the click of the car’s locks and the shiver-making smell of her neck.
He just wanted to look at her.
Dakota turned out of Macland’s, heading toward a dark wooded road. The sun was down.
“Hey,” she said. “Is anyone worried about you?”
He took a deep breath. He was worried about him.
“My mom,” he said. “And my girlfriend is freaking out.”
Dakota nodded. “She misses you?”
“Maybe,” Lance said. “I don’t know. More like she’s mad I’m not there.”
“My mom hates it when I’m gone,” Dakota said. “But it’s kind of how you’d hate to lose a good refrigerator. You don’t really love a refrigerator. You just hate it when it breaks.”
Lance laughed and looked at her. “You’re funny.”
“Really?” She smiled a full smile. She turned onto an unmarked road. Pressed on the gas. “That’s so nice. No one here thinks I’m funny.”
“You’re obviously funny,” Lance said. “You’re empirically, scientifically funny.”
“Can we do an experiment to prove this to them? Are marshmallows involved?”
“I wish,” he said. “None of my friends believe I actually jumped a train. Or did a shot at a bar. Or would wear these,” he said, pointing to his jeans.
“They have a lot to learn, Wildman.”
He laughed. Dakota’s mouth was a line. Her eyes somewhere far away.
“I thought Macland’s might fix your car. I was getting ready to never see you again.”
“Yeah,” he said. Her eyes now on him. Not watching the road at all.
“Don’t go to business school, Lance.”
“Really? That’s what you want to tell me?”
“Yes. Don’t land there and die.”
“Don’t land there and die? I’m more afraid I’m going to die right now.” Dakota cranked the wheel into a turn. His hand pawed for a handle above the door—nothing to grab. Her headlights carved out a small pocket of light. Trees hurtled past.
“Relax. I could drive this road in my sleep,” she said.
“Like Breanna?”
“No,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m the one trying to save your life.”
“And my wardrobe.”
“It’s all related, Lance.”
He smiled at the sound of his name and pressed his hand against the car’s cool window. Trees and sky. The first pinpricks of starlight, threading through his fingers.
“I could be a mechanic,” he said. “William thought I was charmed.”
“You are charmed,” she said. “What do you think about William? What’s his story?”
“I don’t know,” Lance said. “Crazy, right? I can’t stop seeing him under that tree. All that art in his office. Did it look good to you? Was that good art?”
She looked back at him, like she was surprised he’d asked. “Yeah,” she said. “His business card should be hanging at the Frye. And that voice!”
“Totally an opera singer. I wanted him to belt out ‘Moon River’ for me.”
Lance started to sing with William’s voice.
Mooooooon river—
She laughed. “Don’t stop!”
“I’m not a singer.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
He said nothing, because Dakota wouldn’t care about his reasons. Reasons like he’d never done it before and people told him he wasn’t a singer. She wrapped a finger in her dark hair, twirling it over her ear. Her earlobe was not loose and dangling like Miriam’s. It ran straight into a soft curve in her neck. He wondered how it would taste, then she was looking straight at him.
“What?” she said.
“I want to know more about your journal,” he said. “The clues.”
“Oh, man,” she said. Her jaw tightened. He wanted to lean closer. Put his head on her shoulder. Where were these thoughts coming from?
“C’mon,” he said. “What clues did you see today?”
“Really?” she asked. “You want to know?”
“Really.”
Her gaze drifted to the top of the windshield, something building in her eyes. Excitement.
“So many clues, Lance!” She pounded the steering wheel so hard he jolted in his seat. Relief, plain on her face, like she’d been holding her breath for yea
rs. “William under the maple was a huge clue, right? The way that little blue bridge looked over the water. I mean, you get it. You actually see things. You’re the first person to ever see that field with me. That was a clue.”
“Yeah,” he said. He locked his teeth together. “But a clue to what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “They’re all the things that wake me up and make me feel alive. That’s what’s important, right? I just can’t figure out how to pull them all together. Or turn them into something real, that people understand. Like a job. Or a degree. Or whatever bullshit thing. And I can’t even talk to anyone about this, because all people want to talk about is my day.”
“Oh, man. I hate talking about my day.”
“I know, right? It’s just a stupid list. I woke up. I ate breakfast. I vacuumed. I drove from here to here. And then—I’ll see something just perfect. Like, a droplet of rain rolling down the window. Or I’ll be driving and suddenly the air will smell like being seven years old at my grandmother’s farm. Or the sunrise hits a tree and makes it look golden and perfect. Like the only tree in the world.”
“God waving,” Lance said.
She chewed her lower lip. Those lips.
“What do you mean?”
“My dad. He had this thing about God waving. He’d always point out leaves in the late afternoon and how the sun hit them. When they were bright and flashing he’d say There it is. God waving. Better pay attention. He’d always drag me outside to see the sunset, or watch morning fog roll in. He was good about that stuff.”
“So where did he go?” Dakota asked.
Another curve. She took it slow.
“North.” Lance stared out the window.
“That’s a story,” she said. “Will you tell me?”
This pocket of time. It was okay. This was barely real.
“He used to take me camping all the time. He taught me the difference between true north and magnetic north. Do you know?”
She shook her head.
“So, most people navigate by magnetic north,” Lance said. “That’s how compasses work. But magnetic north isn’t a fixed thing. And it’s changing all the time. As much as forty miles a year. It’ll be over a Canadian island one year, then Russia the next. Every once in a while it flips poles completely. So your compass would point north but you’d be walking the exact opposite direction.”