The fortune cookie T-shirts now take on an ominous tone. The bartender rushing back and forth to refill drinks is wearing one that reads: You learn from your mistakes . . . When he turns around, I see the prophetic punch line: You will learn a lot today. A gangly kid with acne, his shirt stained with ketchup and teriyaki sauce, wears one displaying the annoying cliché Everything happens for a reason.
I walk over to the hostess, someone whom I vaguely recognize from my life as an actual teenager, and ask her if she’s seen my dad.
“I don’t know your dad,” she says.
I’m pretty nervous, so I can’t say I’m exactly thinking straight.
“Did you see a dad?” I correct myself, the words stumbling over one another.
“Let me check,” she says.
“That’s okay.” I have the urge to leave the restaurant, flee the scene and head home. But it’s too late.
“Ray?” I hear the familiar voice say.
I turn around, not knowing what to expect. Maybe he’d grown his hair long like he did in high school, maybe he’d shaved his head and become a monk, maybe he’d gone completely gray (maybe I should stop visualizing people only by their hairstyle).
“Dad?”
He stands in the dim light with his back to the door, the rush of cold air announcing his arrival. His hair is combed in the same direction as always, maybe a little thinner at the top, but other than that it’s the same. He’s put on a little weight, grown a goatee, and I’ve never seen him so tanned. He has the vibe of a Florida retiree, minus the Hawaiian shirt. And walker.
It’s weird, but he looks more like himself.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” he says.
An awkward pause as I try to decipher the meaning behind his words.
“I mean in O’Reilly’s,” he adds quickly. “Me and my friends used to hang out here all the time.”
I stand there with a glazed expression, not all that different from the stuffed cow to my left.
“We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” he says.
The hostess intervenes just in time. “Two?”
“I found him,” I say to the hostess and immediately regret it. It sounds like cheesy movie dialogue, the double meaning, the subtle undertone of a son finding his father. Yuck.
The hostess leads us to a booth in the back of the restaurant like we’re the important family in a mob movie. In reality, it’s the only booth not taken because it’s right across from the bathroom. Best seat in the house if you have a weak bladder; not so great if you enjoy eating your meals away from people shitting.
“You’re taller,” my dad says as we take our seats.
“I went through puberty,” I say.
My dad clears his throat and motions for the waiter. “So what’s new with you?”
Too much to say. “Nothing,” I answer. “You?”
The waiter comes over and takes our drink order, a pleasant interruption to our father-and-son small talk.
“Florida is hot,” my dad says after the waiter leaves.
“Be careful in the sun,” I say. Oh god, we’ve entered into talk about the weather after only five minutes. I don’t know if there’s enough small talk to keep us going for a whole dinner.
“I know you’re going through a tough time,” he says. He lets out a deep breath, as if he’s relieved himself of a great burden. The toilet flushes loudly.
A tough time. He doesn’t know the half of it, and I’m sure as hell not going to fill him in.
Thankfully, the waiter returns. He clumsily puts down the drinks.
“You can talk to me,” my dad says quietly. He takes a sip of his beer and wipes the foam off his mustache.
“You folks ready to order?” the waiter asks, searching for his notepad.
“You ready?” my dad says.
The conversation stays on pause as we order our food. I get the Sesame Chicken Burger and my dad goes with the Orange You Glad It’s Not Meat Chicken, in case you’re interested, which probably depends on how hungry you are at this very moment.
“I’m trying to watch my weight,” he says, cupping his stomach.
The waiter walks away and my dad resumes his obligatory father-son heart-to-heart.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” he says, his voice stripped of all the phony airs he’d walked in with. The cheery tone that made it seem like we were at a high school reunion. He looks around the room as if we’re discussing an important business deal and someone might overhear us.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking a sip of my root beer.
“I wanted to give you both space.”
I nod.
“That’s what you wanted too.” It feels almost accusing.
I nod again.
“You and your mom will always be important to me.”
I pick my head up from my drink. It feels weird to be put in the same category as my mom, as if we’re both old photographs pasted down in the same album.
The hum from the bar grows louder as more and more people show up. The steady rise in voices makes me feel calm, like no matter what happens, I’m not alone.
We sit in silence for a couple of minutes while we wait for our food, doing the awkward head bob, focusing our attention on every random object in the bar.
I think about all the questions I could ask him. The ones that would make us feel like a real father and son again. When did you first know you loved Mom? Advice about girls. Talk about all the history he’s missed—the stories I’d uncovered in his absence. Instead, I keep my head down, tracing the patterns in the shiny lacquer on the table.
Maybe this is cynical, but I get the feeling that his visit is more for his conscience than it is for me. Like I’ve forced him to take a break from his real life and journey back into the bowels of Burgerville. And now here we are, having dinner next to a toilet.
By the time our food comes, we’re all small-talked out. I think about what he said before: That’s what you wanted. I start to get angry. It strikes me as immature. He made the choice to move far away. A real dad would have sucked it up, rented an apartment in Murphy, and accepted the consequences—Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.
By the end of dinner, I can tell my dad feels relieved. He’s fulfilled his role as a dad, at least on paper, and I think that’s what he came for. He’s checking off the boxes so he seems like a good guy. He can play the part of the tragic hero fleeing an unhappy marriage. Respecting the wishes of his wife and son to give them space. And then flying back to his hometown to help his son cope with his demons. How brave. Fucking father of the year.
But that doesn’t make his story true. Just like we used to fill in gaps about the lost history of Burgerville’s unsung heroes, we’re shading and coloring our own history. Only his picture looks a lot different than mine.
When we get up to leave, there’s an air of finality, as if years will go by before we see each other again.
“Take care of your mom,” he says.
“You too,” I say. It’s a habit, saying “You too” to empty gestures. Which makes me feel a little awkward because Grandma has been dead for years and he obviously won’t speak to my mom.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Fantastic.”
“And after everything with this girl Jane?”
I put my hand up. “I’m fine.”
“Call me if you need to talk,” he says. All the weight of lyrics from a pop song.
We shake hands and walk outside to where my mom is waiting for me in the parking lot. My dad waves to her, but she keeps staring straight ahead, as if he’s a ghost only I can see.
83–52 DAYS BEFORE
BURGERVILLE BILL
That spring, after Jane told me she was seeing a therapist and taking medication, there was plenty of evidence that, against al
l odds, Simon’s Law was winning out:
Exhibit A: Jane actually started trying in biology. “Wait, how does Spider-Man relate to cellular respiration?” she asked me during one of our study sessions at the library.
“I don’t think Mr. Parker even knows.”
“What good is a boyfriend if he can’t do my homework for me?” Jane said.
Later that day, she drew a Spider-Man–esque comic featuring me trapped in a web waiting to be devoured by a spider that I could only assume was Jane—it was wearing a T-shirt that said Let’s Folk.
Exhibit B: I’d somehow become a B student. From listening to my mom brag about me, you would have thought I’d cured cancer and singlehandedly dismantled a nuclear reactor.
Exhibit C: Jane was actually sleeping. Instead of texts at three a.m. about the Yeti and mind control in the CIA, we’d say good night, love you, and occasionally attempt to sext, which consisted mostly of pictures of fruit.
Exhibit D: Simon’s parents bought his little brothers a trampoline, which meant another wish had come true from Delaney’s wishing well. “Maybe I should have wished to end world hunger,” Simon said, sounding guilty. “Well, I can’t take it back. All I can do now is bounce on that thing with all my heart.”
Anything that can go right, will go right.
* * *
• • •
One day, when walking—and maybe doing other things—in the Lost Woods, Jane and I even had our own encounter with the Flying Possum of Williamsburg. Sort of.
On the way back to Jane’s house, her phone buzzed. When she looked at the screen, she screamed.
“What is it?”
“Somebody just posted something about the Flying Possum of Williamsburg,” she said. “Ellie and I have had a news alert on it.”
Scrolling through the search results, we saw that the Flying Possum of Williamsburg had been added to an online encyclopedia of government conspiracy theories, along with an article about a recent sighting: “It had these bat-like wings and was at least twice the size of a normal possum. The weird thing is, once I pretended to be unconscious, it just flew away.” The article ended with a warning to “play possum” whenever threatened by the terrifying marsupial.
“We actually did it,” Jane said.
“Maybe it’s a sign that you should call Ellie,” I said. I figured they had some big fight and weren’t talking anymore. I thought maybe it was a chance to bring them back together.
Jane didn’t say anything. Instead, she hugged me. Pulled me close to her and didn’t let go for a while. I still didn’t understand why an article on the internet about the Flying Possum of Williamsburg was such a big deal, but I went along with it because I loved seeing Jane happy. Even if it was because of a pretend flying rodent.
* * *
• • •
A little while later, it was the Burgerville Annual Spring Festival, the second-to-last spot on our tour of the History of Burgerville. The list remained safely in my desk drawer, where I’d put all of my Jane memorabilia. By then, though, the history of Jane and Ray had become far more important than any list or tour of Burgerville.
“We still haven’t gone to Green Cow Acres,” Jane said on the way over to the festival.
“You know I’m saving that spot for last.”
“Works for me,” Jane said, looking out the window at Burgerville’s scenery—green fields, dilapidated barns, the occasional cow. “Hopefully by then, I’ll be at least ninety-nine percent sure you’re not a serial killer.”
“I feel the same way about you,” I said.
The Burgerville Annual Spring Festival dates back to the late nineteenth century. Jealous of all the attention Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, was getting, the mayor of Burgerville came up with a festival that would rival Groundhog Day. Instead of predicting how many more weeks of winter there will be, though, our festival predicts whether or not it will be a rainy spring. And in place of a groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil, our festival has Burgerville Bill, a mascot drawn right from the citizens of Burgerville. Through a mysterious selection process involving astrology, numerology, and pointing at names while blindfolded, the mayor, along with input from the town council, selects the heir apparent every twenty years.
During the festival, the chosen Bill is blindfolded, spun around in circles, and then begins walking.
If he walks east, it will be a rainy spring (good for the farmers of Burgerville).
If he walks west, it will be a warm and sunny spring (good for everyone else).
If he walks north, it means good luck for a year (good for the unlucky).
If he walks south, he has to be spun again (good for anyone who likes to see him walk into something, i.e., everyone).
The current Bill, Lester Martin, was about to complete his final walk. Lester Martin was turning eighty years old, walked with a cane, and needed dialysis every day. To the outside observer it might seem cruel to blindfold an elderly man, spin him around, and then make him walk, but in Burgerville, being a human groundhog is seen as a great honor.
The four of us planned to meet at the festival early, so we could get a good view of the action.
Jane and I pulled up beside Simon and Mary in the parking lot, the Red Rocket sporting a new bumper sticker that read My Dad’s in the Burgerville Town Council. Simon had gotten a little carried away with a custom graphic website he found.
It was the first really nice day of the year, all sun and blue sky. The past few weeks had been dreary, as if Burgerville were reluctant to leave winter. The warm weather seemed to be putting Jane in a good mood. “I feel like an anthropologist,” she said, watching the people carry their picnic baskets, souvenir blindfolds, folding chairs, and blankets.
“You’re one of us now,” I said, turning my car off.
“How did I get here?” Jane asked.
“Fate chose.” I motioned to the field on which Burgerville Bill would soon walk.
We got out of the car and went to find a spot right in front.
As we walked, Simon did his best to impress Mary with his knowledge of the Burgerville who’s who. “There’s Town Councilwoman Beth Stevens,” he told her. “A major player in the push to remove Murphy from Burgerville County.”
“Wow,” Mary said. She actually seemed impressed.
“There’s the head of the Fleet Department,” Simon said as a man in overalls passed by. “Ernesto Italiano, I think his name is.”
“You just made that last name up, didn’t you?”
Simon ignored me.
“Big scandal last year after he accidentally ordered one thousand pounds of sugar instead of salt to melt the snow on the roads. They were sticky for weeks.”
Jane threaded her arm through mine, unusual for her to do in public.
I kissed her on the cheek, breathing in, while Simon continued to point out Burgerville celebrities.
“Is it wrong how excited I am to watch an old man stumble along in a blindfold?” she said.
I smiled. “It’s statements like those that make me realize why I love you so much.”
We took a seat at the front of the crowd, Simon and Mary spreading out a blanket and placing a picnic basket in the center.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Simon said. He opened the basket, revealing a feast of every possible form of dairy: a bunch of different types of cheese, a bottle of chocolate milk, some yogurt, and something Simon called “Baked Milk,” which was apparently an Eastern European delicacy.
“I think I’m becoming lactose intolerant,” Mary said.
“Don’t let the lactose win,” Simon said.
A little while later, we saw Jane’s parents. For some reason, Mr. Doe was wearing a cowboy hat. They stopped at the opposite end of the field. Mrs. Doe sat down on a lawn chair next to Mr. Doe and took out some food.
“I can’t believe my
dad’s wearing that hat,” Jane said.
“I think it looks cool.”
“I love your dad’s hat,” Simon said, unaware of what we were talking about.
“You would,” Jane said.
Then my mom showed up, holding hands with Tim.
Simon was the first to spot him. “It’s a bird, it’s a plane . . . No, it’s Tim, Burgerville’s own Superman.”
There we were, the four of us, brought together by some force outside of our control, the various satellites of our lives twirling and spinning around us, as we waited to see humans misplace their faith in the power of fate, this time with the weather.
“Did you expect Burgerville to be this strange when you moved here?” Mary said to Jane. A woman with a Burgerville Bill souvenir blindfold stumbled past.
“I was pleasantly surprised,” Jane said.
The announcer, dressed in head-to-toe Burgerville Bill regalia, got on the microphone. “Who’s ready for Burgerville Bill?” he yelled.
A hush settled over the park. A light breeze shook the trees. Then, as if he had appeared out of thin air, Burgerville Bill began walking from the other side of the field. The crowd went wild. Women over seventy began fanning themselves.
“That man’s a god,” Simon said.
Bill walked to the center of the field and held up his cane. The crowd cheered like Rome celebrating the emperor. The announcer gave him the microphone.
Lester Martin had the look of an aging rock star. In spite of his age, he dressed like a kid, wearing bright blue sneakers and a faded orange shirt, his title prominently displayed in the center.
“This is my twentieth and final year doing the walk,” he said. “When I was but a child, a Bill came to my second-grade class and explained the great responsibility of being a Bill, and why we must honor it. Why, no matter what happens, we must walk.”
The History of Jane Doe Page 17