Solitary: A Novel

by Travis Thrasher

  "Okay. Thanks."

  "But I don't want you to just know that. There's something else." She turns her whole body and faces me.

  This is what it would have felt like to dance with her, to be so close, to smell her and feel her warm breath in the cool night.

  "Can I trust you?"

  "Yeah," I say quickly.

  "No, I'm serious. I mean this-can I trust you?"

  "Trust me with what?"

  Her eyes move around, nervous. "Can I trust you with my heart?"

  My mouth opens but only swallows a breath. I nod and don't move my eyes off hers.

  "There are so many things about me you don't know. Things nobody knows."

  "It's okay."

  "No, it's not. Most of them are not okay. They'll never be okay. But when I hear you say that, I believe you. I believe that they'll be okay. And this faith-it just seems to be dropping onto me like a waterfall."

  "You can trust me. I'm not going to hurt you."

  "I'm not worried about me," Jocelyn says. "I'm worried about you."

  Beyond the girl standing in front of me, the valley of Asheville hovers and seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what happens next.

  "I don't want you to worry about anything."

  She's just a few inches shorter than me. I move my head down a bit to kiss her cheek, touching her arm as I do.

  It's sweet and innocent, and it's all I can think to do.

  Jocelyn doesn't let me move away. She locks her arms around me and embraces me for a long time, her head leaning over my shoulder.

  "I'm sorry," she whispers to me.

  "It's okay," I say. "You apologized. It's done."

  "No."

  "It's fine."

  She moves and faces me again, a look of fear on her face. "That's what you don't understand. It's not done. It hasn't even started yet."

  "What are you talking about?" I ask.

  "I can trust you, right?"

  I nod.

  "Then hold me. Hold me and don't say a word."

  And that's what I do.

  Something changes when the jeep winds its way around the mountain roads into Solitary. It's not just something with Jocelyn. It's something inside of me.

  Things feel different.

  The temperature feels cooler. The darkness outside looks thicker. Even the street seems more desolated.

  Don't take me home, not tonight. I don't want to go there. I don't want to leave you.

  And yet that's exactly what I have to do.

  Jocelyn puts the jeep in park and faces me. "I can't promise you anything," she says. "How I'm going to be. What I'm going to be like over the next couple of months."

  "Why do you say that?"

  She hesitates.

  "What?" I ask. I'm wondering if we're back to square one.

  "You're a good guy, Chris. I just don't know what to say to you."

  Then I surprise myself by saying, "You don't have to say anything, okay?"

  She grabs my hand and leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

  I tell her to call me if she can over the weekend. Something's going on with her-inside of her-and I can't know what.

  At least not yet.

  I step out of the car and watch her drive away.

  As I head up the stairs to our deck and front door, I see the light to my mother's room go on.

  Then I realize I never called to let her know I was going out with Jocelyn.

  The next morning I find myself grounded.

  Not that I didn't already feel grounded, stuck inside this cabin without Internet and without cable. A sixteen-year-old without a license or a cell phone, surrounded by trees and hills and the sounds of the creek flowing below us.

  I'm grounded for the weekend.

  Grounded from all the parties I'm not invited to, from the conversations I'm not going to have on the phone, from the Internet communication I lack.

  Yeah, I'm grounded all right.

  I was grounded the minute we moved here.

  Mom didn't say much to me when I got home last night. She was tired and cranky. But one thing she did tell me, several times.

  "I need to know where you're at, okay? You've got to let me know."

  Yeah, this is the sort of thing a mother tells her child.

  But the way she said it. It made me a little worried. Like there was something out there I needed to be worried about. Like there was something she was keeping from me, maybe for my protection or safety.

  It's surprisingly warm today, maybe topping sixty or so-warm enough not to wear a jacket.

  I wander around the house bored, listening to music and trying to find something on the three channels that come in on our television. Then I meander out on the deck and look out into the woods, listening to the stream below.

  What I need is a dog.

  That or a girlfriend. Or a life. One of the three would be cool.

  After feeling the sun on my forehead and listening to the creek, I decide to get out and enjoy the surroundings.

  I don't go behind the cabin, up in the hills with the small creepy cabin and the wall with the dog behind it.

  This time I go downhill, down to check out the stream that I've heard ever since coming here.

  It's only midday, so I don't have to worry about dusk.

  Not yet.

  The creek slicing through the bottom of the woods is about six feet wide, with towering trees that shadow its surface and jutting rocks and boulders scattered throughout. I skip from one moss-covered boulder to another, moving downstream, walking alongside it in the woods, then once again on its edge. It's serene down here, with slivers of sunlight piercing through the limbs above.

  I walk for half an hour or more, occasionally getting my feet wet.

  I forget where I'm going.

  It's easy to do that, especially being out of view from the street above me, from any noticeable sign of life.

  It's easy to just keep walking.

  I reach a point where the water is louder. The creek bed narrows and juts to the right. As I hop from rock to rock, I see the hill dropping sharply where the creek turns.

  It's a small waterfall.

  I move to the side and have to climb uphill to see it.

  The drop is about fifteen feet.

  But when I reach the crest of the hill to see the waterfall to my right, I completely miss what's on my other side.

  It's only when I turn that I see it.

  The hill I'm on slopes downward to a bench. Behind that, leading up to the road above, are wooden steps planted into the dirt.

  It suddenly dawns on me where I am.

  Is this part of Gus's property? Part of the gated-offsection of land that is right down the road from my house?

  It has to be.

  I make my way to the bench and can see that from there it's a scenic view of the small waterfall made by the creek. I walk up the side of the hill along the steps, slowly and carefully, making sure I don't hear anything coming my way.

  Even before I reach the top of the steps, I can see it.

  The immense lawn with grass as green as the kind the pros play golf on. The massive three-story house overlooking that lawn.

  And the figure on the deck overlooking the grass.

  I duck down and hide behind a tree. I'm not out of the woods yet, so they can't see me.

  You better hope they can't see you.

  I carefully move my head around the tree and look up to see who the figure is.

  Its Gus, and he's going to come down here and find you.

  I'm not worried about him. I can run faster than he can, that I know.

  But it isn't Gus.

  He's older, maybe Gus's father. He's balding with white hair at the sides, a serious face that stares up toward the skies. He's wearing what looks like a black robe, a cup of coffee in his hands.

  I watch him for a moment as he stands there staring out beyond the trees toward the heavens.

  Then he seems to cl
ose his eyes.

  Like he's thinking.

  Or praying.

  Then he opens his eyes again, and this time it looks like they're staring directly at me.

  I bury my face in the bushes in front of me and wait for a few minutes.

  When I peer back around the tree, the figure is gone.

  I can picture it being gone long enough to suddenly pop up in front of this tree.

  I decide my little adventure into the woods has taken me far enough.

  I head back up the creek toward my house.

  Every few seconds, I turn around.

  I can't help feeling that someone is watching me.

  Mom worked all day Saturday and is working lunch on Sunday.

  Ray talked to me Friday about going to church again, but I don't have a car, and it's not like I really want to go back. The only thing I do want to continue is my friendship with Ray. He's one of the only normal things around this very abnormal place.

  At ten-thirty Sunday morning the phone rings.

  Maybe it's Ray offering to pick me up for church. If that's the case, I'll change my shirt and make something normal out of my hair and go.

  Even if it means getting the weird vibes and possibly talking to Pastor Freaky.

  "Chris?"

  The voice is definitely not Ray's.

  She sounds weak, frightened, upset.

  "Jocelyn? What's wrong?"

  Her breathing is shaky and heavy.

  "I'm scared."

  "Scared of what?"

  "I wake up scared. And go to sleep scared."

  She's whispering, for some reason.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah. I am now. He's gone."

  "What? Who's gone?"

  "I just called to talk."

  "Okay," I say.

  "Friday night was really nice."

  "Yeah."

  "I wish it could always be like that."

  I'm about to say that it can be, but that would be a lie.

  Friday night was a miracle, and those only come around at select times.

  "What's wrong?" I ask.

  "Everything."

  "Like what?"

  "Like the fact that I live with some crazy person who happens to be my aunt."

  "What'd she do?"

  "She was born. She decided to take care of me. She's a train wreck. A total and complete train wreck. Everything she touches seems to crash. Everything."

  "Did something happen?"

  "No, nothing specific. Not this time. Thank God."

  "What usually happens?"

  "You can't change who you are, what fate brings to your doorstep."

  Her words sound more like a movie trailer than a girl talking over the phone to her friend.

  "You must think I'm crazy."

  "I think a lot of things, but I don't think you're crazy," I say.

  "I'm sorry for calling."

  "I was hoping you would."

  "My aunt took the jeep. Otherwise I'd come get you, and we could run away."

  "Just let me know when."

  "Really?"

  "I'm grounded, by the way."

  "For what?"

  "For running away with you on Friday night. I forgot to call my mother, not that I have a cell phone to use and not that I could have gotten hold of her."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'm not."

  We talk for the next hour, the tone gradually lightening. I actually get her to laugh, something that is refreshing to hear.

  I almost tell her about the house I saw yesterday, but I don't want to hear any more words of admonition.

  I don't want anybody telling me what not to do, not even Jocelyn.

  "I need to go," she eventually tells me.

  "Okay."

  "Thanks."

  "For what?"

  "For being there. And for not pressing. You can't believe how good it feels."

  "How good what feels?"

  "The fact that you don't need to take anything from me."

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  "Sure," Jocelyn says.

  "What's tomorrow going to be like? At school?"

  "Let's figure it out then. I can't tell you for sure. I can't promise anything."

  "Okay."

  "Okay," she repeats.

  I can see the smile on her face as clearly as if she were standing right in front of me.

  She's with me, even if we're separated by miles of wilderness.

  The weird thing about this cabin-this room specifically-is that I get the feeling that Uncle Robert is going to be coming back any minute.

  I keep discovering things that don't make sense.

  Things that don't seem like a man going a trip would leave.

  It's not just all his belongings. It's also where they are.

  If he was living in this cabin by himself, why are most of his things up in this room?

  There are clothes: T-shirts and jeans and shirts and jackets. Several pairs of shoes and boots. Boxers and socks. Everything.

  And they're all up in my little room. Along with other things.

  Some of the things I've found look brand new. It's not stuff that's old and outdated-it's stuff that hasyet to be used.

  I don't get it.

  Was someone else living here with him?

  I'm thinking about this on Sunday night as I continue going through his stuff.

  Call it boredom or fascination or both.

  I keep feeling like the door is going to open and Uncle Robert will be standing there, breathless and delirious and angry.

  I have no idea why I'm thinking this. Uncle Robert is someone I've seen over the years in bits and pieces. No idea why I get the feeling he would care if I was going through his stuff.

  And yeah, Chris, whats with the delirious and breathless thing?

  I get this feeling that he's in trouble. I know Mom thinks so too.

  I've sorted the albums in a comprehensible fashion, putting the milk crates along the far wall that stands next to the walk-in closet. That gives me a little more room to try to go through the closet. There are lots of random things in here-an old photo album from Robert's high school days. Some shoe boxes with letters in them. A digital camera.

  I still don't feel right looking through the letters or getting on the digital camera.

  Why would Uncle Robert leave these things behind?

  I stumble across a small black duffel bag and open it.

  And then I know.

  Something happened to him.

  Inside is a toiletry bag full of the regular stuff-toothbrush, razor, cologne, deodorant. A couple changes of clothes. Some casual shoes.

  Between a sweatshirt and a pair of pants, I find a gun.

  It's heavy and black, a .45 of some kind, the kind that has a clip on it.

  I can feel my hands shaking as I hold it. I look over my shoulder as if my mom is standing behind me. Then I put the gun back where I found it.

  There are a few other notable things: a map of North Carolina, some binoculars, a knife.

  Was he planning on going hunting or something?

  Then in an outside zipper pouch, I find a couple of other things.

  One is an iPod, the latest model, a lot thinner than mine. It needs charging. Then I find a pen-sized flash drive.

  Mom calls me just then, and I stick the flash drive back where I found it and put the bag underneath a few other empty bags.

  I close the closet door, wondering what happened to Uncle Robert.

  Wondering if I should tell Mom.

  For now, I decide to stay quiet.

  There's another note inside my locker just like the last one, and it's taped on all four sides so it's impossible to slip off. I stare at the students passing me as I tear it off and save it for first period.

  I make sure the letter is easy to access as Algebra 2 starts. I still don't understand how we're supposed to think about numbers and calculations this early in the morning. It's just not right.
>
  The letter is just like before, typed and printed from a computer.

  Chris:

  The best thing you can do right now is mind your

  business and stay out of trouble.

  Don't be noticed.

  People are watching you.

  Go under the radar and go with the flow.

  And above everything else: Stay away from Pastor

  Jeremiah Marsh.

  A friend

  I look around to see if anybody is watching me. There's an occasional obnoxious glance, but nothing suspicious.

  Who's watching me? And why does this friend" not reveal himself

  I can't wait to talk to Jocelyn.

  I wonder how she will act today.

  I want to tell her what I found yesterday in the cabin.

  One thing I know. I can trust her.

  It's nice knowing that someone else is there.

  This is a first.

  I've always felt like I was on my own. Dad used to say that God watches over us and loves us, but I don't buy that. The more I think about it, I don't understand how He can love us, not in this sort of world. And I don't want Him watching over me.

  But I want Jocelyn watching over me.

  My dad wouldn't like those thoughts, but Mom would agree.

  Wholeheartedly.

  I like the way Jocelyn watches me when I sneak looks back at her.

  The way she waits for me leaving the classroom.

  The way she slowly strolls on the way to our next period.

  I like the way I feel when I am near her. The way I feel when I casually say "see you later."

  I like the small smiles she gives during lunch as we listen to Poe and Rachel.

  I like knowing that she knows. That she gets it, that she gets me.

  I like everything about her and everything about this, and I know that I'm falling and I like that she knows this too.

  I don't want school to end because I don't want to be away from her.

  When she offers me a ride home, I like that even better.

  This sort of thing goes on the next few days. Uneventful days. No more notes. No headbangers looking out for me.

  I'm doing what the note said.

  Staying under the radar.

  Everyone's radar except hers.

  The moments screech by when she's away, then evaporate when she's near.

  I'm not in this place but somewhere else. I'm not sixteen but much older. I'm not Chris Buckley but someone better, better in a thousand ways.