by Sarah Bird
He knows where my daughter is, and he’s not going to tell me? I don’t think so.
I stride up to Randy and yell into his caged face, “Where did they go?”
Randy straightens up. The grinder in his hand is one inch from my belly. His finger is tense on the trigger. He wouldn’t need the gun. If he let his finger on the grinder “slip,” it would slice effortlessly through my abdominal artery.
Every muscle fiber in a body that looks to have been trained in biker bars and prison yards twitches. He releases the triggers, flips the visor back, orders Martin, “Get your woman out my face.”
Martin steps forward, reaching for me. “Cam, I—”
“That’s close enough.”
Martin freezes.
Randy presses the blade of the grinder against my stomach.
“Randy, man. Let’s put the grinder down, man.”
I stare into the slit in the helmet, into Randy’s eyes. The thin wisp of foggy color circling his dilated pupil disappears in a total eclipse as he stares back. I look into empty blackness for one, two, three seconds, then yank the entire helmet off his head. My face is close enough to his to smell the robot odor of metal, grease, and speed that is feeding on his muscles and teeth. “Either tell me where my daughter is or kill me.”
“Crazy bitch.” He drops the grinder. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Fuck am I supposed to know? You are trespassing and need to get the hell off my property.”
“Where? Come on, Randy. I’m just a mom looking for my kid. That’s all.”
As he studies me, I see that Randy is not a meth addict; he’s a skinny guy with bad teeth and a twitchy temperament made worse by drinking too much Mountain Dew. “Honest to God, lady, I don’t know. But if I was to guess, I’d say where all them do the food trailer mod go.”
“Where’s that, Randy?”
“Sycamore Heights.”
DECEMBER 11, 2009
Aubrey, what’s wrong?”
“Drive, OK? Just drive.”
The truck fishtails on the dark ice as Tyler swings it around. He steers into the skid and the truck straightens out. Within minutes we are on the highway.
“You OK? Is it your mom? We should go back. Talk to her. Maybe if she met me, she’d like me. Moms like me. They always do.”
“Tyler, what’s wrong? You sound strange.”
The light from the tall poles overhead strobes across Tyler’s face. A gash, black in the shadowed light, splits his lower lip. “What happened?”
He touches his lip. “This, yeah, sorry, I sound even more like a drooling idiot than usual.”
“No, no …” I reach out. Tyler takes my hand, kisses the palm, pressing my hand against his lips until they leave a smear of blood there.
“I made it. I survived. It’s over. For the rest of my life, I never have to go onto a field again where every behemoth out there has permission to do shit like this to me.” He touches the cut on his lip.
“Then I’m supposed to turn around and shake that asshole’s hand? After he head-butts me behind the ref’s back? When I’ve got my helmet off? I’m supposed to pretend it’s a game?”
His tone of thorough disgust even more than his words makes me realize “You don’t like football.”
“I fucking hate fucking football. You know they got linemen in high school now weigh over three hundred pounds? That’s like getting hit by Sasquatch. There are guys out there paralyzed from taking hits like that.”
“You … you hate football? Why have you been playing all these years?”
“I didn’t always hate it. At first I loved it. Then it turned into what I had to do to get out of where I was. It turned into a job. A job I was good at. I was good at being Ty-Mo. But I am done.”
The oncoming headlights cut his profile out of the darkness. The lights flash past, but he keeps his eyes on me as he says, “So it’s over. No more football. No more football hero. Are you still …?”
He doesn’t finish. Instead, he pulls off into the breakdown lane, stops the truck, faces me. The cars coming up from behind splash waves of light across our faces, then leave us in darkness. When I kiss him his blood tastes metallic, like new pennies. I kiss his cheek, his jaw, the unhurt part of his lower lip.
I put my mouth on his neck, my tongue at the hollow beneath it. His breath funnels along my face, my neck. He kisses me so hard that the metallic taste fills my mouth. I think of all the fat books I used to read about a girl in love with a vampire. How she drove him into a frenzy. But I am the one driven into frenzy.
He pulls away. “Whoa. Whoa. Time-out. I promised myself it would not be like this.”
“No, Tyler. It’s all right.” I reach for his face, a moon going behind the clouds.
“Don’t, A.J. Don’t let me mess this up. You have to know what you’re getting into first.”
“I know. I know everything I need to know.”
“No, you don’t.” He starts the engine, drives for several minutes before he says, “Call your mom. Tell her you’re fine, but you won’t be home tonight. Tell her that your football-hero boyfriend is going to show you who he really is.”
Boyfriend.
My mom implodes and orders me to come home immediately or she will call the police and have them bring me home.
I imagine the spinning blue lights of a cop car ricocheting around the cab of the truck. Tyler and me standing by the side of the road, a highway patrolman with a flashlight beaming a cone of light onto my driver’s license. I imagine the life I’ve known ending. I imagine all that, then I tell my mom in a loud, peppy voice for Tyler to hear, “Yeah, that’s fine. See you later then.”
Mom starts crying and begs me, “Please, Aubrey, please don’t make me call the police, because I will. If you force me to do this, I will.”
I say, “Yeah, Mom, love you too. Bye.”
As I turn my phone off, I feel like Hester Prynne going into the wild, dark forest with Reverend Dimmesdale, throwing away everything for love. Love. I haven’t let myself even think that word until now.
I love Tyler Moldenhauer.
I loved Tyler Moldenhauer from the second I woke up in his arms. I would have loved him even if he’d never spoken to me again. I just never would have admitted it. Maybe at some twentieth high school reunion, if he’d gotten fat and bald, I would have gotten up the courage to tell him, “I know you don’t remember me. Aubrey? Aubrey Lightsey? The girl who threw up on you? Pink Puke? Anyway, I had the biggest crush on you all those years ago.” Maybe he’d be flattered. Maybe we’d laugh. Maybe he’d remember me. Maybe he wouldn’t.
Still, without really understanding why he’d chosen me, fearing he’ll be reabsorbed into his golden kingdom at any second, knowing that my heart is going to be broken and I am a complete idiot, I admit that I love Tyler Moldenhauer, and my DNA twists—all its helixes, double and single—around this rewriting of my essential code.
“What did your mom say? Should we go back?”
“It’s fine.” I slide over next to him. He puts his arm around me and I nestle there. “Don’t go back.”
As we drive into the night, the headlights of the oncoming cars flash on and off across our faces like a time-lapse film of the sun rising and setting every few seconds, as if time is speeding up so fast that when this one night is over, years, decades, centuries will have passed.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 2010
We are out from beneath the shadows of the tall pines before Martin notices and pulls over.
“Cam, are you all right? Cam?”
“I’m fine. Let’s go. We’ve got to keep moving. Get to Sycamore Heights. Find out what the hell is—”
“Camille, you’re shaking.”
Camille.
I was Camille on the train in Morocco and for the happy years when we lived in Sycamore Heights. During the colic siege, the Next siege, I cut my hair short so I wouldn’t have to deal with it, and somehow my name ended up ge
tting snipped off as well. I guess that after Next neither one of us had the breath or tenderness for even one extra syllable.
“I’m fine. Let’s drive.”
He opens his arms. Am I supposed to tumble into them?
He undoes his seat belt, undoes mine. I stiffen as he pulls me into his arms like a firefighter dragging a person out of a car that is about to explode. “Camille.” He summons back the person who used to fit in his arms.
“That guy back there. He is my nightmare. He is the embodiment of all my worst nightmares of what Aubrey … Someone like that should never have touched her world. Should never have … never have …”
As I babble, he strokes my hair and murmurs, “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine.”
“No, fine is no longer a possibility. Fine would have been me putting my only child on a plane today and sending her off to college, where she and her roommate could have decided whether to stack the beds into bunks for more room or leave them separate. Fine would have been her calling me while she’s walking to her anthro class. Fine would have even been me and Pretzels, curled up on her bed with her baby pictures, me crying myself to sleep. This … this …” I wave my hand at all of it: the snake-bearded hillbilly, the stolen money, the lies. “This is most definitively not fine.”
I’m the one who sounds like a speed freak as I rant on. “His ‘people’? What did that mean, ‘his people’? Oh, God, why would Aubrey know someone like that?”
“Apparently he restored a trailer for them.”
“For him. Tyler Moldenhauer stole our daughter’s college money.”
“At least it’s not drugs or guns.”
“ ‘Bronk’? What kind of a name is ‘Bronk’?”
We both know that it is not the name of a kid heading to college or the name of the boyfriend of a girl who is. Martin’s breath warms the top of my head. It feels luxurious, like getting your hair washed at a salon. I want to close my eyes and lean back, but the words keep pouring out of me.
“I thought I could control her by taking the laptop away. No, no, wait, here’s how stupid I was. I thought I could control her with Christmas cookies. Here’s what an in-tune mother I was: I forced Aubrey to make and decorate cookies with me last Christmas. Forced. Five different kinds. As if I could lure her back into childhood with sweets. As if pressing hatching with a fork into peanut-butter cookies would transform her into the toddler I taught to name all the colors. Or that in the middle of sifting powdered sugar onto lemon bars the schoolgirl who sang Beatles songs with me would reappear.”
Martin rests his cheek on the top of my head.
“How did I not know that all those little girls Aubrey once was were already gone?” I straighten back up. “We should go.”
Martin starts the engine. “Sycamore Heights?”
“Unless you have a better idea. Dude.”
Martin snorts a thin laugh and pulls back onto the highway.
DECEMBER 12, 2009
At an all-night truck stop, I go into the bathroom with Tyler. The mirror is a greasy sheet of polished metal bolted to the wall. Tyler sits on the edge of the sink. I clean the cut on his lip, wash off the blood dried on his chin, his neck. He closes his eyes while I do this.
A waitress brings tall plastic menus and automatically pours coffee, since it is either late-late-night or early-early-morning breakfast time. Tyler lets me order for both of us. We eat big, fluffy omelets, split a stack of pancakes, and drink too much crummy coffee just because we like sitting across from each other so much. We dawdle so long that I think Tyler has abandoned whatever urgent mission we’d originally set out on until he says, “You ready?” as if I was the one who’d been stalling.
There are only a few semis on the main highway. After a while, we turn off onto a road that shoots through the few scattered small towns. For a while there are one or two lights on in the towns we speed through. Then all the lights and all the towns disappear and it is completely dark. I turn on the radio. I think it will be funny to listen to crazy preachers and talk-show hosts ranting about “the puppet king, Obama, whose soul is owned by the Chicago Zionist Jewish machine.”
Occasionally, I can catch glimpses of tall pine trees. Since neither of us has said anything for a long time, I ask, “Where will all these babies that the government is going to force us to abort come from after Obama makes us all gay marry?”
Tyler is concentrating so hard on the empty road ahead that a few seconds pass before he gives a weak, delayed-reaction chuckle, never taking his eyes from the hole cut out of the darkness by his headlights.
All that I can make out are dead weeds growing up through the cracks in the buckled asphalt, but Tyler sees something that makes him slow down and squint at the left side of the road. He switches off the radio, as if silence will help his vision.
At a spot that doesn’t seem any more overgrown with scrub brush and spindly trees than any other, he says, “This is it,” and turns off onto a road that isn’t even single-lane, and has ruts running down it like a riverbed. Branches swat at the windshield and shriek as they scrape both sides of the truck.
Tyler doesn’t seem to notice the scraping sound that gets louder and louder the farther in we go. The road goes uphill and the engine groans. Tyler puts the truck into four-wheel drive. We come to a sagging gate held shut with a piece of chain and a rusty padlock. The instant the headlights flicker across the gate, Tyler stomps on the gas and we rocket forward. Pebbles spit out from beneath the back tires. He rams the gate so hard that the lock pops off, flies up, and lands with a hard thunk on the front windshield. It startles me and I shriek like a little mouse.
By the time he stops and we get out, the sun is beginning to crack a few thin streaks of a dismal gray dawn into the new day. The ground is rocky and uneven; the air is so still and dry and cold that I can blow out a stream of frozen breath so far I lose sight of it in the dim light.
I shiver. Tyler takes off his brown corduroy jacket and puts it on over my hoodie. I protest, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.
We watch in silence as the slowly rising sun, like the lights coming up on the first act of a play, gradually reveals the wreckage of an old, low-lying farmhouse. When he finally speaks, Tyler’s voice is different. Twangier. More country. A little mean. “So, what do you think of the old family estate? Should I have Madison and Paige and the whole gang out?”
“Is this where you grew up?”
“This is where my mom dumped me.”
I take his hand. It is dead cold. “We don’t have to be here.”
“Oh, we have to be here.” His hand trembles. He yanks it back, jams it into the pocket of his jeans, nods to a smaller shack beside the bigger one. “That’s where they put the mojados. The wets.”
The building is a converted chicken coop. The gray boards are bowed and popping away from rusted nails. Beside it is the hulk of a windmill. The blades are crumpled and the head is hanging down like a daisy with a broken stem.
I take his arm. “Let’s get in the truck. Turn the heat on.”
Tyler doesn’t move. “The thing I remember most about her is her laugh. She had this smoker’s laugh. Shit rattling around in her lungs. Everywhere she went she had her smokes in one hand and a drink in the other. Know what she named me? Bronco. How sorry is that? Someone name a sweet, clean, newborn baby Bronco? Would you even name a dog Bronco? Ditched that sorry name soon as I could.”
He lets me lead him away like someone in shock leaving the scene of an accident. At the truck, he fumbles for the keys in his pocket, drops them on the rocky ground. I pick them up. “I’ll drive, OK?”
The branches scraping the sides of the truck seem even louder going out. It takes all my concentration and nerve to navigate the big truck over the ravines in the narrow road. Tyler doesn’t seem to notice or care that his truck is being destroyed.
Neither one of us speaks for a long time after we emerge and get back on a decent road. I don’t know what to say and finally
ask, “So that wasn’t your mom’s place?”
“No. She lived in some piece-of-crap trailer one of her ‘boyfriends’ gave her. Mighta been my father. Who cares? That was my grandparents’ place.”
“Where’d your mom go?”
He shrugs. “My grandparents acted like she was dead. But who knows what that means, since my grandparents thought that anyone who wasn’t an android working machine was a waste of good oxygen. With them you were either working until you dropped or dead asleep just long enough so you could get back up and work until you dropped again. They had me bucking hay out the back of a flatbed truck by … Shit, I couldn’t have been more than five. My age. Another little detail nobody bothered to keep track of. I’m going to shift you out of four-wheel.”
He reaches down next to my feet, moves the shifter. The growl of the engine softens and the ride smooths out. I want to be back on a big highway with lots of traffic and lots of lights. I blow through a couple of small towns that are not much more than a few boarded-up shops with gas stations at either end.
A truck with wheels the size of satellite dishes zooms past us. Bumper stickers on the back proclaim IF YOU CAN READ THIS, THANK A TEACHER. IF YOU CAN READ THIS IN ENGLISH, THANK A SOLDIER and MY OTHER RIDE IS YOUR MOM.
I reach across the seat and take his hand. Even with the heater on full blast, his fingers are still icy.
“What happened to …?”
“My grandparents? Died, I guess. They weren’t never …” He drops my hand, splays his fingers in frustration, corrects himself: “They were never prosecuted.” The mean country twang fades more and more the farther we drive. “County just let them go back home and die.”
“What happened? After?”
“CPS put me in this group home. For the first time in my life I was getting fed regular, didn’t have to work like a slave. Had toilet paper, soap, sheets on the bed, screens on the windows. And you want to know the really messed-up part? I missed them. I missed those heartless, ignorant peckerwoods. Missed my skank of a mother. I’d hear someone with shit rattling around in their lungs when they laughed and my heart would hurt, I missed her so bad. I woulda gone right back to my grandparents if they’d let me. How fucked up is that?”