Throat

by R. A. Nelson

  They all stopped, looking. I was too nervous to count, but there were at least seven or eight heads bobbing in the pool and several adults arranged around the edges on lounge chairs. My first impression was of a lot of pale legs and blond hair.

  “Hi, this is Julia, everybody!” Sagan said. “I promised you wouldn’t scare her.”

  I glared at him. Good thing he couldn’t see my murderous expression.

  I was dripping but pretty much undamaged. “Hi,” I managed to say weakly, giving a stupid little wave.

  “Well, hello, Julia!” A tall, thin blond woman came over, taking my hand in both of her hands. Obviously Sagan’s mom.

  She steered me over to a man standing in front of a gigantic grill, a big oven mitt on one hand. He waved with a spatula. He was as tall as Sagan and had the darkest blond hair in the bunch, and rounder features than everybody else as well. Sagan’s dad, I guessed.

  “We’ve got you a place right over here,” Sagan’s mom said. “I hope you like tilapia. If not, we can put some pork on there. Honey! Did you bring out those chops like I told you?”

  “No, fish is fine, really!” I said.

  I had never felt more like an alien in my whole life. After spending the night prowling the city and drinking blood with vampires, the extreme normalness was making me dizzy.

  “Glad to have you,” Sagan’s father said, taking the mitt off and shaking my hand. I found myself desperately focusing on the food: bunches of onions splitting open from the heat, green and red peppers, little ears of corn.…

  Sagan introduced me around. My heart was in my larynx. There were siblings and an aunt and uncle and their two kids, an extra friend or three from the neighborhood.… It was impossible to keep all of them straight, so I just stopped trying.

  After we sat down, I had to make up a few things about my dad, what he did for a living, the college football team we rooted for, that kind of thing, but I tried to keep it simple. I had trouble remembering names, except to notice that none of them were as unusual as “Sagan.”

  “The first kid is an experiment,” Sagan’s dad said. “You keep practicing until you get it right.”

  “So, Julia, Sagan tells us you are helping him with his history?” his mom was saying later. We were sitting at the world’s longest picnic table, digging in. One of the little kids was absently kicking my shins beneath the tablecloth.

  I gulped a little, having just shoved a giant wad of butter in my mouth along with a small forkful of baked potato. It’s funny what you miss.

  “Um. Yes, ma’am. That’s the plan,” I said, garbling the words. “And he’s getting me squared away in math.”

  “So what are you planning for your major?”

  “Well …”

  “The counselors really don’t push it so hard when you’re a freshman, Mom,” Sagan said. “They’re just interested in getting you through the 101 courses.”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking his lead. “Gotta be well-rounded.”

  “But … what are you interested in?” Sagan’s mom persisted.

  “I … don’t know exactly,” I said. “Papi—my grandfather—he always says I was born four or five hundred years too late.”

  Sagan’s dad sat down, beads of sweat on his temples. “Whew, that looks good,” he said about his own cooking. “So, Julia … if you could be any person in history … whom would you choose?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” I said. “An explorer. Like de Soto or Champlain or Ponce de León.”

  “That’s an interesting answer.”

  “Not to do any of the bad stuff those guys might have done,” I said quickly. “Just to see what it felt like to explore new places. You know? Before everything changed. See what the forests were like. The wildlife. The … Native Americans. Have some adventures. Find out where maybe we got parts of history wrong. I’ve always wished I had come over with the settlers at Jamestown.”

  “But … didn’t they end up eating one another?” Sagan’s aunt said.

  I bit into an ear of corn. “Sure, well. Papi—my grandfather and I read about it. Some archeologists say cannibalism is hard to prove. At least half the original colonists died, yeah. They called it the ‘Starving Time.’ Supposedly a man dug up his pregnant wife, salted her, cut her into pieces, and ate her. Captain John Smith even wrote about it. He said he didn’t know ‘whether she was better roasted, boiled, or barbecued.’ ”

  I looked up from my corn and they were all staring at me, especially the little kids.

  “This … is … um … good,” I said.

  We had homemade ice cream later. “This is the first time I’ve had this since …” I stopped myself.

  “What?” Sagan said.

  “Never mind. Just something from a long time ago.”

  He took me inside afterward. It felt extremely weird walking through his house. These people were so … involved. Artwork all over, photographs on every wall, and stuff that I couldn’t even give a name to. Maybe you could call them … projects? Things with feathers and seashells and bits of colored stones.

  “Come see my room,” Sagan said.

  We went upstairs and passed a bedroom full of beads and golden twirly thingies hanging from the ceiling that spun in beams of sunlight.

  “That’s Bree’s and Jenna’s,” Sagan said.

  Another room had books everywhere and what I think was a cello … a violin on steroids, anyhow. A hat with pink-and-white-striped fur was propped on a lava lamp.

  “Charlotte’s.”

  We walked a little farther, then I made him stop, turning to look into his eyes.

  “They’re all really nice,” I said. “Have I been okay?”

  Sagan returned my gaze, brushing back my hair. “Perfect. Except for that part about John Smith barbecuing his wife …”

  “That’s not what I—!”

  A couple of screeching wet kids brushed past, hurtling up the hall.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Thanks for coming. They all love you, you know.”

  “Sure they do.”

  “No, really.”

  “Is it like this all the time around here?”

  “Only on weekends,” he said. “The rest of the week’s not so calm.”

  Sagan’s room was not what I had expected. I had pictured posters of supernovas, planet models, astronomy textbooks. It was kind of spare. A laptop on a desk that was really only a wooden table. A bed with no headboard shoved up under the window. A dresser and an oak armoire with a dinky TV inside.

  “Wow, this is really … neat,” I said. “As in, where is all your stuff?”

  “I get tired of all the crap all over the house,” Sagan said. “This is my space. I like to keep things simple. Streamlined. So I don’t have to spend a lot of time thinking about useless junk.”

  “I’m … impressed. No, really. Shut the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Just … shut it.”

  Sagan shut the door, then turned around looking embarrassed. There was a life-sized poster on the back of his door: a cowboy with a bearded, scowling face, a broad-brimmed dingy white hat, and twin pistols crossed over his chest. The top of the poster said THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES.

  “Look out. Who’s this?” I said, grinning.

  “Um. You know. Come on, don’t tease me.”

  “No, really, Sagan, who is it?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You know who it is; it’s Clint Eastwood!”

  “The old guy?”

  “Yeah. Um, no … Well, it’s a movie he made when he was a lot younger. You know, he used to be in all those Westerns.”

  “I seriously have never seen this.”

  His eyes got big. “But it’s a classic! My dad’s all-time favorite movie. He’s the one who turned me on to Josey Wales. It has some of the most famous lines in the history of movies.”

  “Oh wow. So no wonder you hide this thing behind the door. So you can lie in bed all day and look at him …”

  “Oh, shut up.�
��

  “Your secret’s out!” I tickled his stomach and he knocked my hand away.

  “Stop it. That’s been up there since like … seventh grade.”

  “So why don’t you take it down? You like it, don’t you? Your hidden passion, to be a cowboy.”

  “Hey. That’s not why I like it.”

  “So you get off on Westerns, huh.”

  “I mean it, quit teasing me.”

  “I’m not teasing,” I said, still smiling. “But I can hardly resist.… The big astronomer who wants to rope little doggies.”

  “You mean dogies, don’t you? Motherless calves?”

  “See!”

  “I don’t want to be a freaking cowboy!”

  I pinched him playfully. “So why do you like Westerns?”

  “Not just any Westerns. His Westerns. Well, this Western.”

  “Okay. So tell me one of them.” I crossed my arms. “I’m waiting.”

  “One what?”

  “The famous quotes. You said this movie had the most famous quotes like … ever. So you must have them memorized, right?”

  “You’d just laugh.”

  “No, I promise I won’t laugh. It’s important to you, so it’s important to me, huh?” I was giggling under my breath as I said it. “Like, pick one. The most famous. The one I’m most likely to have heard.”

  Sagan was quiet, looking at me, probably trying to figure out just how deep he was in it.

  “Okay. The one probably everybody remembers is this,” he said.

  He held up his arms like he was holding six-guns and put on a scowl that made him look kinda sorta like a Scandinavian Clint Eastwood. In a raspy voice, almost a whisper, he said, “ ‘Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?’ ”

  I stared at him, waiting for him to finish.

  “Is that it?” I said.

  He looked at me, disbelieving. “Well, of course that’s it!”

  “Never heard it.”

  “Not possible.”

  “No, truly, I’ve never heard it. I don’t watch a whole lot of old movies, you know.”

  “It’s not that old. Not like it was made in the Dark Ages or something.”

  I put my hand on the side of his face and pushed in a little closer. “Pistols, huh? So you got a thing for pistols. Ever fire one?”

  “No.” He grinned sheepishly. “Unless you count Halo 3.”

  “Okay, gimme another one. Another quote.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t feel like it. You’ll just make fun of me.”

  “Oh, come on. You get your feelings hurt too easy.”

  “I do not,” Sagan said, puffing himself up a little. Now his arms were crossed too.

  “Really. It doesn’t take much,” I said. “My mom would say you can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

  “I can take it.”

  “Okay, then tell me another one. Not something random, but—your favorite, pick your personal favorite. I swear, I won’t make fun of you.”

  Sagan watched me.

  I raised my hand, crossed my fingers.

  He rolled his eyes. “I know I’ll regret this,” he said. “But … okay. There is the part near the end of the movie … Wait, I don’t want to spoil it for you.…”

  “Oh please … like I’m ever going to watch it.”

  “Okay … Josey, you know, Clint Eastwood, Josey Wales is a real loner because his whole family was murdered by some renegade soldiers. He’s always pretending he doesn’t care about anything or anybody else the whole movie, yet the entire time he keeps picking up these friends, you know? Misfits, loners like him, or just people who need help. Well, in the end he and his friends—women, children, old people—they’re all about to be trapped in this cabin by the same bunch of murderers who killed Josey’s family. And this … this is what he says.… Wait … no, I can’t do it.…”

  “Yes you can. Come on. Say it.”

  “Okay. Jeez, Emma. Okay. So they are heavily outnumbered. Basically going to die in that cabin. And Josey …” He swore.

  I looked at him closely.… His eyes were shining.

  Sagan dropped his head, raised it again. “So stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid. Tell me what Josey said.”

  I watched him swallow. “Okay. He said this: ‘When things look bad, and it looks like you’re not gonna make it, then you gotta get mean. I mean plumb mad-dog mean. ’Cause if you lose your head and you give up, then you neither live nor win, that’s just the way it is.’ ”

  I suddenly felt my bottom lip quivering, my eyes bunching, blurring out. Sagan started to say something.

  “I know, it’s not what you—”

  I leaned into him and touched my mouth to his. We kissed and it turned into a long kiss. His lips tasted of vanilla ice cream.

  Finally I just clung to him, feeling his breathing going in and out. I wondered what his folks would say if they came in.

  “Wow,” Sagan said. “Where did that come from?”

  “I’m sorry about the way I was acting back at the base,” I whispered. “I know it must have seemed pretty … strange.”

  “You’re fine.”

  “I know, but …”

  “What?”

  “It’s just … everything … it has all reminded me of what it was like. I had almost forgotten. Today has been a little bit like going back in time. Are your parents happy?”

  “Sure, yeah. I guess so,” Sagan said.

  “So it really does work out for some people.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean … I guess it’s just what you’re used to. This is all I’ve ever known. So I guess you start thinking everybody is this … lucky.”

  “Will we be lucky?”

  “Are you saying …?”

  “No, I’m just saying, us. Me and you. Not talking anything about white houses with a yard and two-point-three kids or any of that.”

  “You know, probably we never would have met,” Sagan said. “If—whatever happened to you hadn’t happened. So I feel … I feel lucky already.” He tilted my head up to look into his eyes. “I don’t see how somebody could be any more lucky.”

  “So … if something happened to me … would you—”

  “Don’t talk about stuff like that. I’m superstitious.”

  “You mean black cats and all that?” I said. I rubbed noses with him. “I’m surprised.”

  “No. I don’t believe in ladders and salt over the shoulder and the number thirteen. I just mean in general. Like maybe it’s possible to be so happy that … it almost doesn’t feel … safe?”

  “Oh yeah. I know that. I know it exactly.”

  “Why, do you think something is going to happen?”

  “Something is always going to happen,” I said. “Or it’s boring. Who wants boring?”

  “Safe. Right now I’ll settle for safe.”

  “Not me,” I said. “Well, my little sister, sure. If anything ever hurt her … it would kill me. Completely. But I’ve never cared about being safe my whole life.”

  “Please start,” Sagan said.

  The party didn’t break up until well after dark. The finale to the evening was Sagan’s sister Charlotte playing a concerto by somebody named Rostropovich on her cello. She was tall and slender and of course blond, and had pulled on jean shorts over her bathing suit. She was fourteen, and something about her intense concentration and the way everybody paid attention to her while she played broke my heart.

  On the way back I made Sagan stop at a convenience store with a phone. “You have to stay in the Jeep,” I told him.

  Mom wasn’t at home, so I left another rambling, teary message that basically said the same stuff I’d told her before: I’m fine, just checking in, don’t worry, tell Manda I love her, I’ll be home as soon as I can.

  Papi was tougher, because he actually answered. He got right to it, no BS, just as I knew he would.

  “Enkelin, where are you?” he said in hi
s sternest voice.

  “Papi … please, I can’t tell you where I am. But I’m okay. I really am. Please … I know it’s hard not to worry, but you have to …”

  Papi swore. Something he never did. “Come home. Sofort. Immediately. No. Be quiet. There is no discussion, you hear me? Now. I demand you to come home now.”

  I started to cry. It felt as if I were tearing out both our hearts. “I can’t, Papi. You know I would if I could. It’s not me. It’s something that has happened to me. I don’t know what Mom has told—”

  “You are killing your mother, Enkelin. Do you understand this? Every day you are gone. She is killed a little bit more.”

  “Manda, how is Manda?”

  “Her too. She weeps every night. Weeps herself to sleep, do you hear? For missing you. Afraid for you. We are all so afraid.… If it is a boy, I will …” I could almost hear him spitting with anger as he grasped for the words. “If a boy has made you do this, given you drugs … I can’t say. I can’t say.”

  “It’s not a boy, Papi. It’s not drugs. You know I wouldn’t lie to you! I have never lied to you. It’s … something else. Something I can’t say, because I have to keep everybody safe. If I tell you, if I tell Mom, anybody, nobody will be safe anymore. You have to believe me!”

  “Then tell me where you are. Right now. I will be coming to pick you up. Just give me the address, the street, anything, I will be there. I am putting on my coat, Enkelin.”

  “No, Papi. You can’t. It would … everything would be too dangerous. I have to do this by myself.…” I trailed off into a whimper that I hoped he didn’t hear. I rubbed my arm across my eyes, clearing my blurred vision. Tried to stand a little straighter.

  “Papi … I swear to you … I will be okay. You know me. I wouldn’t be doing this without a very good reason. You have always trusted me. All I am asking you … all I can ask you … is to keep trusting me. Don’t think I can’t do it. Don’t believe that. I have to know you believe in me. It would help so much.…”

  His voice softened and I heard him take a very deep breath. He let it out again. “I know you,” he said, voice breaking. “I know you, meine … granddaughter. You must know it’s not that I don’t believe. You are my … strength. That is what I believe in you. But this … I only want … help you …” I heard him sniff. Was he trying not to cry?