Wildman

by J. C. Geiger

  “You can always leave,” Dakota says.

  “Agreed,” Stone says.

  “Oh yeah?” Mason says. “So why are you here? Nursing school, Dakota? Waiting around to sell more shitty sketches at the King County Fair? Or, no. It’s because you love your families so much. Right, Stone? Dakota?” They don’t answer. Everyone is watching the fire.

  Miriam puts a hand on Lance’s leg.

  “C’mon,” she says.

  Firelight gives her eyes a frantic look. Miriam saved his life once. During a school trip to Eugene, she pulled him back from the path of an oncoming bus. Lance could still taste the exhaust as it came whooshing past, horn ringing in his ears. Miriam’s clear blue eyes, telling him he was still alive. And her eyes had looked just like this.

  “I’ll make it to Telluride,” Stone says. “You can do that trip in one long day.”

  “Yeah,” Rocco says. “On the back of a unicorn.”

  The group snickers. Darren and Jonathan too. Lance stares at his friends, trying to make them stop. But they can’t see how Stone looks, holding that bottle. He takes a long pull of liquor.

  “You couldn’t even get a ride from your cousin’s trailer this morning,” Mason says.

  “So?”

  “So you’ll never make it to Colorado.”

  “He could jump a train,” Meebs says.

  “Right,” Rocco says. “Because he’s so good at that.” Rocco mimes Stone trying to grab someone’s hand, slipping. Screaming. More laughter.

  “You don’t know,” Stone says. He’s only talking to Mason now.

  “I know you can’t get there in jail.”

  “Yeah? What else do you know, Mason?”

  “I know your ass works for me, and I’m not opening a franchise in Telluride.”

  “You couldn’t drive there anyway,” Darren says. Giggles around the fire.

  “Darren,” Lance hisses. Stone is gripping the bottle with both hands, searching for Darren’s comment like a fly buzzing near his ear. But Darren only notices the laughter.

  “You might make it,” Darren says, “as long as you don’t get anyone more pregnant.” He stumbles up on a log, pumping his hips. “Triplets! Quadruplets! Quintuplets! Boom! Boom! Boom!”

  A dry whoosh tears through the air. A hot wave and a fireball swallows Darren’s face. The odor of burnt hair. People scream and leap up. Everyone but Stone.

  “What the hell, James?” Breanna says, standing over him.

  “Just a little splash,” Stone says.

  He’s wearing a small, impenetrable smile.

  “I’m burned!” Darren is standing in his socks, covering his face. “He burned me.”

  “What the hell was that?” Mason says, towering over Stone. “Answer me! Get up!”

  “Is that an order?” Stone says. So quiet Lance can barely hear him.

  “What?”

  “Is. That. An. Order.”

  “Yeah, it’s an order, dickhead. Now are you—”

  Stone whips the bottle at Mason’s head. He ducks and the glass thunks onto the grass. Mason freezes, then steps forward. Swelling in size.

  “What the fuck did you just do?” he says. Lance steps back. Mason is terrifying.

  “Just responding to orders, sir.”

  “Get the fuck up!”

  “I will not,” Stone says. “What would you like to do about that?”

  “Get up or you’re fired.” Mason stomps the dirt. “You hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stone, don’t be stupid,” Breanna says. “Get up. He’s serious.”

  Stone doesn’t look up. Or even move.

  “You think I’m bullshitting you?” Mason says. “If I count to three, you’re fired. One. Two.” Stone motions for Mason to continue. “Three. Fine, fucker. Take the week off. The whole year. Have fun in jail, you piece of shit.”

  Mason is shaking. Breanna makes a choked sound and turns away. Then Jonathan is grabbing Lance by the arm, dragging him into the shadows with Miriam and Darren.

  “Nice friends,” Darren says. He has red cheeks and watery eyes, but the burn doesn’t look serious. “Thanks for standing up for me, man.”

  “You were kind of asking for it,” Lance says. He feels completely sober all of a sudden. He could play a perfect high-range solo. Run ten miles.

  “You’re saying he deserves to get his face burned off?” Miriam says.

  “He’s fine,” Lance says. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Lance,” Miriam says. “It’s not like you have formal medical training.”

  “I’m first-aid certified,” he says. “I have a card. How formal does it need to be?”

  “I want Jonathan to look,” Darren says.

  “Fine,” Lance says.

  “Where are you going?” Jonathan asks.

  “I’m going to check on Stone.”

  “You’re helping that asshole?” Darren says, shaking free of the huddle. “Hey. Get back here!”

  Lance is walking when Darren jerks him back by the shoulder, spinning him around.

  “Your ass is staying right here.”

  “Touch me again and I’ll kill you.”

  Lance doesn’t recognize the voice as his. He’s thrumming with new energy, like he’s grabbed hold of a live wire and can’t let go. Darren’s surprise is exaggerated by his red cheeks.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Lance?” Miriam sobs.

  “We’ll leave him,” Darren says. “We’ll just leave his ass here.”

  Lance turns and walks slowly toward the fire, fighting the pull of Bend’s gravity until something snaps like elastic and he’s free and rushing toward his new orbit. Breanna sees him coming and her posture loosens, like Lance just added his hands to something too heavy to carry.

  “Thanks for coming back,” she says.

  “I’m fine,” Stone says, still sitting. “Not a big deal, people.”

  “You’re not fine.” Breanna is crying. “James.”

  “Sorry if I burned your friend.”

  “It’s okay. He kind of deserved it.”

  Stone shrugs, staring at the fire. Around him, vacant logs. They’ve all left. Lance scans the clearing and the trees. Panic flutters in his chest. He will not find her. She’s gone.

  Dakota is gone, and you are going home.

  In the shadows, a shape that isn’t Dakota. Coming fast. Charging. Lance turns to the side, bracing for impact.

  “Darren,” he says, raising his fists.

  “Just me,” Jonathan says, stepping into the light.

  Lance’s body goes limp.

  “So. Funny thing.”

  “What?”

  “We still don’t have shoes. Darren’s riding Mason up the hill.”

  “Wow,” Lance says.

  “So,” Jonathan says, looking at his socks.

  “Oh, I see.” Lance sighs. “Well, I’m glad this isn’t awkward.”

  “Me too.”

  Lance turns around. Jonathan’s legs lock around his waist, voice in his ear.

  “Thanks, man. So, hey. What’s the story with Dakota?”

  “I can’t talk,” Lance says. “You’re too heavy.”

  “C’mon.”

  “Seriously. I can’t breathe. You’ve really let yourself go.”

  “Is there a thing with her? Yes or no? You can just nod. C’mon. Was that a nod?”

  Lance climbs the hill, step by step, and tries to keep his head straight.

  Their skin is translucent under white parking lights. The Bend crew is alone, and there’s a feeling like someone might’ve hit the reset button on the entire night. Maybe Darren isn’t burned. Miriam and him are still okay, and everything can go back to normal. But there are lost hours to account for. Two friends with no shoes. And a strange new silence, like the sheet music has gone blank in the middle of a concert.

  Jonathan has always been good at improvisation, and he’s good tonight.

  “So, Lance.
Need a hand with your stuff?”

  When they get to his door, it’s hard to make the key fit. It takes him three tries. Once he and Jonathan are inside, he has to say it:

  “I’m not coming home.”

  His sinuses burn when the words come out, like he’s just been punched.

  “Yeah?” Jonathan says. “I thought you might say that.”

  The cats on the wall are unimpressed. They, like Jonathan, have seen this coming.

  “I can’t leave my car,” he says.

  “The car. Right,” Jonathan says. “You know, I found a wineglass under the sink.”

  A hot tingle rushes up from his stomach.

  “I didn’t mean to find it. I was looking for toilet paper. Then I was thinking, why would you hide one wineglass?” Lance can only stare back.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Jonathan says. “Unless it is.”

  The air conditioner clicks off, peeling away a layer of sound. A nervy silence. If another unnoticed thing turns off, Lance will scream.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Jonathan asks.

  Lance nods.

  Jonathan looks over the room. Sighs. “Okay. Let’s break the news.”

  They pack up the empty beer cans and bags of chips, then each grab a side of the cooler and carry it downstairs. Miriam and Darren are waiting. They watch in silence, then Miriam says:

  “Where’s your stuff?”

  “He’s not coming,” Jonathan says. “And we gotta go.”

  A rattle in Darren’s throat, like he’s going to spit.

  “You’re not coming?” Miriam’s eyes are wide, searching for the joke.

  “Not tonight,” he says.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Okay.”

  The two of them walk to the center of the parking lot. Parked cars, blue and silver. A skin-peeling glow that makes Miriam’s veins stand out in dark blue streaks. She looks breakable.

  “You don’t want to come home with me?” She slurs a little. He’s surprised. She’s actually a little drunk.

  “I didn’t ask you to come get me,” he says. “My mom sent you.”

  “But you don’t want to come with me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sad, wondering eyes. He could drift back into Miriam’s arms now. A current, flowing east. There was no Seattle anyway. An easy float back home, into the churn of summer, Oregon State, Bank of the Cascades, life as he knew it.

  And he’d never be here again.

  “Come home,” she says, stepping closer.

  Her open hand. Like seeing it for the first time. He cannot move.

  “Is this over, Lance? Are we done?”

  An answer sits in his mouth like a stone, but he will not spit it out. He does not want to hurt her. It’s still fixable. He could mash his lips against hers until the earth stops and spins backward. They can leave together tonight and just start over. But the thought of starting over with Miriam makes him so tired. So tired he can’t raise his hand to her shoulder, or even look her in the eye.

  “Can you say something?”

  It’s all so plain. This should hurt more. He looks straight into her blue eyes, damp and staring. He needs to feel the splinter and snap. To make it sting and bleed the way two years should sting and bleed. And this is too much like nothing. In Bend, a week ago, he’d be curled up in a ball, crying on her carpet. Sobbing and screaming into his pillow. But they are not in Bend. Four short days. Things fall away. And now there is only hard light and concrete and nowhere around them is love.

  “Is it over, Lance?”

  Her whisper is deep and throaty. He’s never heard this voice from her before. A shaky feeling, because there will be so much he never knows about Miriam.

  “Yes. It’s over.”

  He can’t believe his words, but the impact is there, in her face. She is watching him, looking for something.

  “Were you going to write me a letter, like your dad?”

  He stops his leg from shaking.

  “Miriam.”

  “I’m glad you missed the party,” she says. “Say something. Can you just say something?”

  She waits. Keeps waiting, then walks back to the car. He gives her time to get there. Darren has one foot on the cooler. Jonathan is standing by the passenger door. Miriam shakes her head and gets in the car.

  “You’re really not coming,” Darren says. “Have an awesome life, buddy.”

  Darren looks unsteady. Lance keeps his distance.

  “I’ll do my best,” Lance says.

  “C’mon,” Jonathan says. “Let’s go. Get in.”

  “Cool. Just one for the road,” Darren says. He flips open the cooler lid and screams, jerking backward.

  AHH-HAHAHAHA!

  Mr. Jangles stares up from a bed of beer cans.

  “Stupid,” Darren says. He gets in the car and slams the door.

  “Nice work,” Jonathan says. He picks the figure up by the foot. “It is important to maintain a sense of humor.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Oh, dang. You know what? I forgot something up in your room.” Pats his pockets. “I’ll just run up there real quick.”

  “Not a chance, dude.”

  “Okay. Just remember. We’ll all be waiting.”

  He and Jonathan hug.

  “Stay in touch,” Jonathan says.

  “I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Jonathan says. His voice sounds tight. “Just stay in touch, okay?”

  In the car, Darren and Miriam are sitting still, like the drive has already started. Jonathan climbs inside and the interior lights dim. They are all facing straight ahead. No one yells goodbye through an open window. No one turns and waves. Three faces in the dashboard’s submarine glow, and Jonathan is speaking to them, words Lance can’t hear. The car glides to the edge of the parking lot.

  The pulse of a blinker. Two red taillights shrinking into darkness. Gone.

  The parking lot is quiet.

  Then someone is moving toward him from the woods. A face, hovering like a pale coin in the darkness, slowly gaining dimension until it’s Breanna.

  “Lance,” she says, eyes damp. Unfocused. “Will you please go? Someone needs to go see him.” He wants to ask who and where, but it will only delay what he knows she’s asking him to do. He walks down the hill. The trail is dark. Tree roots, thick and slippery, bulking up from the soil, making him slip. The forest smells like the damp-moss musk of a cave and as he picks his way down the slope, Jonathan’s face lingers in his mind. Whispers in his ear.

  Just stay in touch, okay?

  That awful way Jonathan’s voice had sounded. Like he knew Lance was never coming back.

  Stone is standing beside the fire with a certain repose, the way a person only stands when they think no one’s watching. Lance walks closer until Stone’s features clarify in the flickering light. Vacant eyes. His mouth, without expression.

  “James?”

  He twists toward Lance. Military training springs out like a blade: straight back, tensed fists. A different person.

  “Who is it?” Stone asks.

  “Just me. Lance.”

  “Why are you calling me James?”

  “That’s what you told me to call you. When we met.”

  “Bullshit.” Stone turns away, looking bored. Lance gets closer.

  “You were in the car. With blood all over your face. I remember it pretty well.”

  “Huh,” he says. “Maybe you’re right.” The military part of him retracts, and he’s just Stone again. The guy grinning through the service window of The Float. Easy smile. Soft eyes.

  “Sorry about my friends,” Lance says.

  “No big deal,” Stone says. “It’s universal.” He stares at the tracks and shakes his head, losing a silent argument. The flames make a dry flapping noise.

  “You’re not going back to Bend?” Stone asks.

  “Not tonight.”

  “Bend sounds nice,” Stone
says. “Mountain town. Breanna says it’s awesome.”

  “It’s no Telluride. We should’ve gone while we had the chance.”

  “Yes! Yes, we should’ve,” Stone says. He looks over his shoulder, searching the shadows. There is no one there. “You know it was voted the most beautiful main street in America. Have you seen pictures?”

  “No.”

  “It really is, man. If you have the money, you could just sit in a café all day. Your whole life could go by while you’re sipping coffee. The mountains are right there. They come right up out of the fucking town. You climb. You ski. Sit in the cafés at night. Maybe work a restaurant gig. Life can start over that way. Find a shit job in a beautiful place and go from there.”

  “That sounds about perfect,” Lance says.

  “I can see it.” He shuts his eyes. “Just like a picture.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  “I can’t see myself in the picture,” Stone says. He opens his eyes. Looks at Lance.

  “You don’t know unless you try,” Lance says. But his words sound flat. Stone, in his cooking pants. Those giant black boots.

  “This place,” Stone says. “This fucking place.”

  “So go.”

  “It’s like a horror movie. You can’t outrun it,” Stone says, his eyes sharp. “Mason’s right. That’s why I enlisted. To get away. I brought all my favorite books to basic training. Even wore my glasses. A few of the guys started calling me professor, you know?”

  Stone’s gaze moves down the long, dark tracks.

  “I believe it,” Lance says.

  “But it always catches up with you,” Stone says. “We were in the mess hall for dinner, and I made a joke—I don’t even remember what. And this guy McQuarrie flung a spoonful of mashed potatoes at me. They hit me right here, in the chest. He’s this rich prick who everyone likes and he says, Ain’t too bright, are you, DeWitt? And other guys started in with their own stories. And this place found me again. Right there at the table.”

  “So you left?”

  “Nope,” he says. That small smile. “I went over the table. I’m not even that strong, but no one could pull me off the guy. I was going to rip the box straight out of his throat. My fingers were all dug in. Someone hit me with a chair, and that was it.”