Going Nowhere Faster

by Sean Beaudoin

“I swear,“ I said, trying to feel tough, but on the verge of tears. “I swear, if you hurt her?”

  “The question the young bee should be asking itself,” Prarash said, “is what you’re going to do when I hurt you.”

  Prarash hit Miles on the back of the head. Miles made an “oof” sound and fell to the grass. Then Prarash walked toward me. “Your sister and I and the disgusting animal took a walk because everyone knows wherever Olivia goes, the young bee is sure to follow.”

  I backed toward the door. Chopper was barking loudly now, working himself into a frenzy.

  “What is it you want? What is your problem?”

  “My problem?” Prarash sneered. “You, Stan-lee, have always been my problem.”

  It was like a German movie that had started weird and had just gotten weirder. People dancing in black turtlenecks and close-ups of earlobes and Adam’s apples. This was now officially a video you’d pull out of your VCR and toss on the lawn. I reached around on the ground for a weapon, for anything, and came up with a petrified yam. Prarash laughed, his eyes wide, the size of manholes. “The young bee is all out of options.”

  I threw the yam, missing badly. He didn’t bother to duck, and swung in a wide arc. I did bother to duck, and his big, fat, dangerous (who knew) hippie fist slammed into a plank behind me. I circled left, as he moved in again. I clenched my fists, back pressed against a tomato bin. There was no room to slide, either right or left. Olivia yelled again. I cocked my arm, trying to remember the improbable way I’d connected with Miles’s nose.

  “Wait!” I said.

  “Wait?” he said.

  “Wait,” my mother said, and then strode into the circle of moonlight and decked Prarash with a right cross so powerful three teeth went flying into the air, fluttering for a second like moths, before falling to the dirt. Prarash made a slobbery sound before collapsing like a sock full of pudding.

  “Wow, Mom,” I said.

  She adjusted her big hoop earrings and smoothed her skirt, looking down at Prarash in a heap at her feet. “Wow, yourself.” She blew on her knuckles and shook her hand up and down like a rag. “Funny how much that hurts.”

  I stood there in awe. My mother the hero. Joan of Bark. The Vegan Avenger. Muhammad Yam-li.

  Miles stood wobbily and walked over, rubbing his scalp like it was just another day. “Hey there, Mrs. S.”

  My mother pulled at the lock of Smith’s Natural Foods. “Well, don’t just stand there, young man. Run over to Roberto’s and call Sheriff Conner while I let your sister out of the store.”

  Sheriff Conner drove up twenty minutes later, lights flashing as the cruiser bounced across my mother’s arugula patch. I held Olivia in my arms while Miles fed her little pieces of beef jerky every time my mother turned her head. Olivia was remarkably relaxed, like she was locked into a yam hut by crazy fat yogis three days a week.

  “Stan! Hi, buddy!”

  “Hi, Sheriff.”

  Sheriff Conner cinched his belt and pushed up his hat with the tip of his shotgun. “So what exactly is going on here?”

  I pointed with my foot at Prarash. “Completely excellent question.”

  Sheriff Conner crouched over, examining Fred. “Whoa, Mrs. Smith, that’s quite a knotting-up you’ve done here.”

  Prarash rolled in the mud. My mother had roped him like a calf. He rolled to say something, but it mostly sounded like “Mmmmffrreeempfh,” since my mother had also shoved a rotted lettuce head into his mouth.

  Sheriff Conner looked in Prarash’s face. “Now, why don’t you calm down so I can loosen this rig and get you in a nice pair of handcuffs, huh? Or are we gonna have to do this the hard way?”

  Prarash stopped struggling and Sheriff Conner yanked the lettuce head from his teeth.

  “Has it come to this, Sirena?” Prarash cried, spitting lettuce juice. “Are you ready to forsake me?”

  We all looked at one another. Sirena?

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “I think he’s been smoking that lettuce, too,” Miles said.

  “No,” my mother said, blushing. “I’m afraid that’s me.”

  “What?”

  “Little dove, now is the time to prove yourself! Do you not remember our walks down the paths of Veda? Our strolls through fields of Chi and Longing?”

  “Mom?” I said. “This is getting weird.”

  “Getting?” Miles said.

  “He smells,” Olivia said.

  Chopper picked up the cue, raised his leg, and peed on Prarash’s neck.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” my mother apologized.

  “No problemo,” Sheriff Conner said. “I believe that’s the closest thing to a shower this character’s had in months.”

  My mother sighed. “I’ve known for some time that Frederick here had developed some . . . feelings for me. I just didn’t realize to what extent.”

  “But the dolls? And the flats? And a nickname?”

  “YOU!” Prarash yelled, his eyes crazy, staring at me. “You were poisoning me to her! Always with your smart comments and your little jokes.”

  My father walked up and shined the flashlight he’d invented in Prarash’s face, Smith’s E-Z Beam. Prarash didn’t even squint. It wasn’t very bright. In fact, it may not have made any light at all. My father took my mother’s hand. “It finally happened, huh?”

  My mother nodded.

  My father scratched his head. “I know I promised the day we were married I’d never say ‘I told you so,’ but . . .”

  “Keep the streak alive,” my mother suggested.

  Sheriff Conner got Prarash unknotted and on his feet and into a pair of cuffs. Fred began to weep. I couldn’t believe it, but I actually felt a little bad for him. He pointed at me with his runny nose. “Why wouldn’t you just go away? Could you not see what your mother and I were about to share?”

  “Hoo boy,” my father said.

  “Hoo boy,” my mother said.

  Maybe Prarash was right. Maybe that’s why I’d stayed around. Why I’d gotten bad grades and hadn’t applied to colleges. Maybe subconsciously I’d known all along this would happen. And I’d be needed.

  I turned toward my parents. “You know what? Maybe subconsciously . . .”

  “Forget it,” my mother said.

  “No one’s buying it,” my father said.

  “Nice try, though,” Miles said.

  “I am leaving, though,” I told Prarash. It felt good to say. Better every time. “I’m going to California.”

  My mother raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  Olivia raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  Prarash wiped his beard on his shoulder and moaned. “I’ve always had lousy timing.”

  Sheriff Conner shoved Prarash into the backseat, not delivering the usual speech about “watch your head,” and Prarash slammed into the back with a crunch. Sheriff Conner got in the front and then leaned out the window. “Give my apologies to Roberto. Just part of the job, you know.”

  The cruiser sped away with the lights flashing, tearing another trail through the arugula.

  “So much for this year’s harvest,” my mother said.

  “There’s always next year,” my father consoled. “That’s the amazing thing about nature. Stuff just keeps growing.”

  Olivia had fallen asleep in my arms. My father took her and began walking back to the house. Chopper trotted behind, licking at her dangling fingers. Miles gave a salute and said he was going to go home and sleep for about ten years. When we were alone, I looked at my mother.

  “You were about to make him leave? Why did you even let it go this long?”

  My mother stared at her feet. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to let Frederick know he needed to move on for quite some time, but I guess I got lulled into overlooking some things.”

  “What things?”

  “Just about all of them.” She sighed. “Mostly, I suppose, I let it go because he’s the only one who ever really listens to me.”

&nbs
p; I took her by the hand and we started walking back toward the house. “You know something, Mom? If there is one single thing in the world I absolutely and completely understand, that’s definitely it.”

  “Well, that’s good, I suppose.”

  We stepped over a row of zucchini together.

  “So, I’m going to California with Miles next week.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “And?”

  She held up my hand and kissed it and sighed. “Be careful driving.”

  I laughed. “You know, I guess I could check Berkeley out when I get there. No promises, but, since I’ll be there anyway . . .”

  “Okay, Stanley,” she said.

  And it was. Okay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A RESERVOIR of nostalgia for a town about to be left to the DOGS

  My parents held a going-away party for Miles and me behind Smith’s Natural, which was now closed. Permanently. My mother made a huge pot of organic chili that no one went anywhere near, mostly because it smelled almost exactly like a combination of old socks and slightly newer socks. There were picnic tables and a barbecue pit and horseshoes and a radio playing mariachi music. Mrs. Dos and Mrs. Tres were cooking an enormous spread, tamales, roast pork, flautas, ceviche, pollo asado, and huge plates of chilies and avocado. Their kids tore around, screaming at one another in Spanish. My father stood under an almond tree drinking a beer (drinking a beer?). My mother stirred her chili and talked with Mrs. Uno about turning Smith’s Natural into a taqueria.

  I walked across the lettuce patch, smiling at Olivia and Dos’s son, who were holding hands on the spot where I’d dug up and then fully buried my poor bike. We’d had a little ceremony for it. Miles had read a few words (Nirvana lyrics) and then Olivia had rung a handlebar bell twenty-one times. Next to her, Keith was eating slices of a big white frosted cake he’d brought himself. He had a slice in each hand and was alternating between them.

  “Yeah, they arrested the bastard,” he said, mustache covered in frosting. Then he looked down at Olivia. “Sorry, honey.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I know what it means. I know who it means, too.”

  “Quién?” said Dos’s son. “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Olivia said.

  “They found traces of organic dirt in our carpet. Found it all over his tent, too,” Keith explained.

  “Yurt,” Olivia said.

  “When they raided the tent, they found some pretty interesting stuff. Like, for instance, the entire Happy Video porno collection.” Keith looked at Olivia again and covered her ears. “Sorry, honey.”

  “S’okay,” she said. “Yurt.”

  “They also found a bunch of spray-painted dolls.” Keith took a huge bite of cake. Then he said “Weird, huh?” except his mouth was so full of food, it sounded like “Mrouweref, Fnurt?”

  “What about my shift?” I asked. “Have you found someone to cover it?”

  Keith smiled. “Yeah, Officer Dave is going to take over.”

  “Officer Dave?” I said. “No way.”

  “Way,” Keith said, finishing both his slices and then picking up two more. “Turns out he hates being a cop. He’s a movie buff. Big Arnold fan. He quit the force a week ago. Starts training Monday.”

  “Is he doing the books now, too?”

  Keith frowned, licking his fingers. “Doing the books is my job, Stan.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said.

  “Hey, Stan!” Keith yelled. “Stallone movies!”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not today.”

  “C’mon!” he yelled again, getting excited. “One last time! Check this out, everybody! Reverse alphabetical!”

  I sighed and began a monotone, “Victory. Tango & Cash. Staying Alive. Rocky V. Rocky IV . . .”

  “Well, hell-o,” I heard my mother saying. She was shaking hands with Dr. Felder. When she turned, he winced, looking down at his red fingers. I walked over to where he stood under an almond tree, sipping from a Dixie cup of milk. He wore khaki shorts and a yellow sweater tied around his shoulders.

  “Hey, Doc,” I said. “Sporty outfit.”

  He looked down, as if surprised to see himself wearing sandals, then wiggled his toes.

  “I got a gift certificate,” he explained. “For Christmas.”

  “Christmas was a long time ago,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Dr. Felder agreed, sipping milk. “I guess I haven’t had a lot of time for stuff like shopping.”

  “Too busy fixing the heads of upset teendom, huh?”

  Dr. Felder smirked, but not much. “Listen, I thought a lot about what you said in my office, Stan, and I’m sorry for questioning whether you might have broken into the store.”

  “To be honest, Doc? You should be.”

  He adjusted his sweater. “You’re right. It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. The thing is, I’ve been treating Prarash for years. I don’t know how it could have taken this long to start connecting the dots. And then, when I finally did, I really should have called the police. Like, immediately.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, incredulous. “You see Prarash?”

  Dr. Felder nodded. “Oh, yes. One of my most difficult patients. He needs quite a bit of help. Hopefully he’ll get some in prison.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Hopefully, he’ll get a whole lot of something in prison.”

  Olivia came tearing past us, followed by Dos’s son. They ran laughing behind a pile of yams.

  “So, in the meantime,” Dr. Felder said, “I’ve decided to give up on therapy for a while.”

  “Give up?”

  Dr. Felder looked pained. His face turned red and he seemed to be sweating. I’d never seen him sweat before.

  “Well, maybe not so much give up. More like take a break.”

  I didn’t say anything, allowing him to organize his thoughts.

  “I guess this whole incident has made me realize I’ve been coloring by the numbers, you know? Taking things for granted. Mostly, not listening. I mean really listening.”

  “Kiss of death for a therapist,” I said.

  He laughed. “Don’t I know it. So, actually, I’m going to Italy for a couple of months. See some art. And old buildings.”

  “Good for you, Doc,” I said.

  “Plus, I will be receiving my own treatment. From a renowned Italian psychotherapist.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “Time to check out the other end of the couch, huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  He smiled and toasted me with his milk. I smiled and toasted him with my cherry Coke.

  “Can I ask you one last thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  Dr. Felder’s smile went away. He looked off into the fields for a long time, finally nodding as if he’d come to terms with something.

  “Boris.”

  “Boris?” I said, doing a spit-take with the Coke. “You’re joking.”

  He shook his head, wiping cola off his shorts. “No, actually I’m not. It’s been a source of . . . embarrassment for quite some time.”

  “Boris Felder,” I said. “Man, that’s almost worse than Stan Smith.”

  “It almost is,” Boris agreed, and then walked over to the picnic table to freshen his milk.

  Toward the end of lunch, Miles stood up from his seat at the picnic table and announced in a voice two octaves below his normal one, “We Must Go Now.”

  Everyone shook their heads, knowing he was right, except Keith, who grabbed the taco platter and said, “I’m not finished.”

  “Sprout-water diet,” I told him.

  “No chance,” he said, then picked up a beef taco and gave it a big kiss.

  Miles backed the van up in front of the barn and we loaded the last of our stuff, mostly CDs and leftover food. Everyone gathered around, my father shaking Miles’s hand, and then mine. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and handed me five hundred-dollar bills.r />
  “Drive safe, okay?”

  Keith got me a bear hug that smelled like cake and Keith, which was not the greatest combination, then handed me five one-dollar bills. “Go ahead and drive reckless. What can it hurt?”

  My mother gave Miles directions to the highway.

  “I know the way to the highway, Mrs. Smith,” Miles said.

  “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she told me, then kissed me in the exact same spot my father had.

  “Me, too,” I said, then hugged Dos and Mrs. Dos and the kids. I thought there was a chance Olivia wouldn’t cry, but that chance came and went.

  “Can’t I come?”

  “Sorry, Peanut.”

  “Can’t you not go?”

  FIVE REASONS NOT TO GO:

  1. Olivia

  2. Olivia

  3. Olivia

  4. Olivia and Chopper

  5. Olivia

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said. “Then we can go and feed the ducks.”

  She sniffled and shook her head, and my mother took her by the hand and led her away. Chopper woofed and howled and peed on the tires. Miles and I climbed into the van and started up the driveway, everyone waving. At least until the van stalled. My father grabbed a wrench and ran toward us, but Miles got it restarted, with an enormous backfire, and we pulled past Smith’s Soon to Be Natural Taqueria with a lurch, heading toward the highway.

  “Wait, I’m lost,” Miles said, pretending to turn the wheel. “Should we go back and ask directions?”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “Wait, I’m hungry,” he said, pretending to turn the wheel in the opposite direction. “Should we go back for more tacos?”

  “Just drive,” I said.

  “So we’re going? Definitely?”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Good.” Miles nodded, almost running over the mailbox. “Just making sure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  OUT not entirely OF THE very recent PAST

  We made it about half a mile past the YOU ARE NOW LEAVING MILLVILLE, HAVE A GOOD TRIP! sign, when a red light went on in the dashboard. Miles flicked it a couple of times with his finger, but it stayed lit. I pushed the LIFT OFF button, but nothing happened.

  “We need some oil,” Miles said. “I can’t believe your father didn’t top it off. How inconsiderate.”