Outside, an engine roars to life.
I take a deep breath. “But it’s what I’ve dreamed of, right?”
I glance around my apartment and step into the cellar.
When I reach the front drive, Naomi’s car is gone. She’s in my truck.
“I squeezed the car into the shed,” she calls out her window. “Mom won’t know I’m gone for days and this way—”
“Whoa.” I stop feet from the truck. “You didn’t tell her you’re goin’ with me?”
“And the reason I should?”
“Figure your mom would like to know, is all.”
She turns to face the dash, and then whips back around. “I would have liked to have known that the man I watched all these years was my grandpa!”
I have no answer for that.
Our gazes meet and her face changes. I know her expression well. It’s the one Old Bill wears when he says he’ll be home early, and the one he uses when he finally strolls in the next morning. It’s rage and pride and are-you-believing-this-crap fear all rolled into one.
Naomi gently tongues her cheek.
“There’s stuff with my mom you don’t understand.” Her voice softens. “If you knew, you might get it.”
I walk around toward the driver’s side. “Hey, it doesn’t matter—you don’t owe an explanation. Home can hurt most of all.”
Naomi gives me a hesitant smile. “Yeah, it can.”
I slide in. “You mind grabbing that stray?”
“Is it declawed?”
“’Course not.”
She grimaces. It’s the first nonadorable look I’ve seen her make.
“Does it bite?”
“Naw.” I lift the hissing cat out of the cab.
Her eyes plead. “Can you promise I’ll never have to touch animals on this trip?”
I scratch my head. “Can’t even promise I know where I’m taking you.”
Her eyes sparkle, and her face gleams. She breathes deep and smiles. “Where have you been all my life?”
She shuts her door, I start the engine, and together we chug toward the highway. Naomi Archer and me.
part two
jack
chapter twenty-three
OLD BILL TOOK ME ON ONE ROAD TRIP.
We pushed east and crossed the Wisconsin border. Wisconsin Dells wasn’t Disneyland, but at five it felt close.
But that wasn’t west. West has its own feeling. Wild and movielike. The thought of West fills me with butterflies. So does the girl seated to my right.
“I love how it feels when you start a road trip,” she says. I glance at her—at her limp, unlatched seat belt. Naomi sits cross-legged on the front seat and leans back against the passenger door. She’ll see every move I make.
“Never been anywhere.” My arms give a solid jerk. Thank goodness there’s plenty of play in the wheel. “You’ve taken a lot of these?”
She starts to speak, pauses, and smiles. “I’ve never taken a road trip in a truck. And I’ve never gone with just one guy.”
My stomach rolls; I feel dumb. I know she’s only with me because she’s mad at her mom, and her mom’s a jerk, and I am, too. Naomi’s too smart to hop in a truck with a guy who might try something. Forget the her-and-me stuff. To Naomi, I’m Safe Sam.
I slump in my seat. Dreams, even crazy, impossible ones starring Naomi and me, die hard. I pump out air and breathe in another idea. Crazier, safer, truer.
Feels more like a family vacation. I peek to my right. She’s still there. We’ll be like a couple on a family vacation. Yep. We belong together, at least for a week or two.
I smile at the ridiculous thought and straighten.
Go ahead. Fake-flirt all you want. Fits my new fantasy just fine.
“What are you grinning about?” Naomi asks.
Words come easy now. “You. Me. Here.”
“Yeah.” She nods, and shifts in her seat. “Here.”
She looks at me for three hours straight. There’s no hiding in this truck, and as we roll into Iowa, she pops the question.
“Tell me about the moving.”
“See that sign? We’re in Iowa. Ever been here before?”
I glance at her beautiful browns. She waits.
I sigh. “The jerking—it’s called Tourette’s.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Why do you breathe?”
Naomi turns and faces the front. “You can’t, like, stop it at all?”
“For a little while. Minutes. When I really think about it.”
She makes a gentle thinking noise, but her face shows nothing. I don’t want sympathy, but I want something. A nod. A smile. All I get is a perfect face that doesn’t move a muscle. I’m an idiot for sharing. Why should a perfect person understand? Outside of the twitchy club, few do. And I hate talking to anyone who has it—hate the me I see in them.
Eyelids grow heavy. The truck drifts. My bed in Pierce would feel mighty good.
“Where are we going?” Naomi asks.
It’s been a quiet few hours; her voice jars me from my semi-conscious state. I straighten and ease the truck off the shoulder of the Nebraska highway.
“Henderson, Nebraska,” I say. “Should be almost there. According to the map, we stay two nights.”
“Two? We’d be in California if we kept going. We’re not really staying that long in Nowhere, Nebraska?”
I shrug. “I’m following George’s route. Don’t know why, but it must’ve been important.”
“You two really hit it off.” Naomi forces a smile. “I’m jealous.”
“Of me? Now, that’s the first time I’ve heard—there. Henderson.” I nod at an exit sign.
Naomi perks up and scans rows of corn. “You’re kidding, right?”
We exit the interstate and follow more signs. We don’t see a town. Don’t see a building. The first structure we come to is a mailbox:
FA T
I stop and stare at the cockeyed letters on the side.
“We’re lookin’ for a family named Fast.” I reach the map to Naomi. “Think this is it?”
She doesn’t look, doesn’t speak either. Naomi scans the fields that surround us and slowly rubs her thighs. “They’re waiting for us, right?”
Again, I shrug and set the map on the dash.
We crunch up the narrow drive between rows of corn. Gravel plinks off the truck’s underbelly until we wheeze to a halt in the center of the farmyard.
We sit quietly. The world rustles around us. Tens of thousands of stalks rub against one another and drown out every other sound. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to meet whoever lives here. I want to sit and listen, hypnotized by the everywhere rustling.
I smile at Naomi. Her gaze flits from one outbuilding to another. Her knee bounces as if she’s about to explode.
“Are you okay?” I ask. Naomi tugs on my sleeve, but doesn’t answer. I shrug and scan the farm and my gaze snags on the tallest windmill tower I’ve ever seen. I stretch out the window and look up. “Dang. You see that mill?”
I jerk back into the truck, grab for the map, and flatten it against the dash. I peer from paper to tower. “That’s it. See the sketch? That mill’s on my map!”
“’Bout time you show up!” A woman bursts from the house, wipes her hands, and whips off her apron. She sees me, stops, and breaks into a lovely I-was-expecting-you smile. I step out, nod in return.
“Jack Keegan.” She folds her arms. “It’s been what? Sixteen years?” She walks up to me. “You were in diapers then.”
I wince and glance toward Naomi, who exits the truck. I don’t think she heard.
“Do you know me?” I ask.
“Gracious, Jack. Surely Lydia’s mentioned her dearest friends.”
My face blanks, and her smile vanishes.
The woman hugs me hard and long—too long, and my arm jerks inside her squeeze. “Your mom sends letters. We’d try to call, but that man of hers—” She pushes back. “But now you’re here. L
et me have a look at you. When George told me you’d be coming, I could hardly believe it!”
“Hi, I’m Naomi Archer.” Naomi steps around to my side of the truck.
The welcoming smile leaves the woman’s face. She looks to me, to Naomi, and back to me, where she lightens. “George didn’t tell me. Oh, Jack, she’s pretty. Donald will be shocked—Donald!” she calls across the yard, and turns back to me.“You’ll miss him if you don’t hurry.” She shoves me toward the barn. “Irrigation pump broke again. Come on, Naomi, tell me all about yourself. How long have you and Jack been together?”
Naomi peeks at me. “Actually, we’re just friends.” Suddenly I can’t hear the corn. The world feels empty, the truth stinks, and I don’t know why I left home.
“Friends.” Our hostess tongues the inside of her cheek. “Traveling together. My Donald’s a bit old-fashioned about these things. He will be shocked.”
She reaches around Naomi’s waist and pulls her toward the farmhouse. Naomi throws a helpless look back over her shoulder, but I don’t feel friendly right now and turn my back.
I shuffle up to the barn’s side door. Rusted hinges squeak something fierce, and I peek inside at a collection of five Model Ts.
“Damn.”
“That the kind of language I can expect, son?”
“No, sir.” I straighten, as does the man bent over one of the antiques. Tall and powerful, and his muscles bulge beneath faded overalls. He stares hard for a moment, and breaks into laughter. He tosses down his wrench with a clink, walks up, and bear-hugs me.
“Ain’t heard words like that ’round here since your daddy came to call. How are you, Jack?”
“I’m okay. But I go by ‘Sam’ now.”
He wrinkles his forehead, throws open the garage door, and whistles. “Sam! Here, boy!” A great German shepherd bounds into the barn and slobbers on my legs.
“Let’s get names straight. That’s Sam. I’m Don. And you’re Keegan’s boy?”
“Guess so.”
“I don’t think I could stomach calling you anything but what James named you. You’ll have to deal with ‘Jack.’” Don smiles and I shrug. “Let’s go for a drive. Hoped you’d make it before nightfall. Don’t figure you’ve ever ridden in one of these.”
Don grunts and leans in to the barn doors, returns, and cranks the Model T to life. We climb in, and with a squeeze of the horn, the car putters out of the farmyard and onto the road.
“What am I doing here?” I whisper.
I don’t get an answer. Don’t expect to, what with the wind and the crackle of tires in my ears. I don’t know where I am or what I’m supposed to do for two days, but I ain’t in Pierce, Don’s nice, and Naomi is in the farmhouse. It strikes me that I’m pretty near happy.
“Where ya livin’ these days?” Don lifts his pointer off the wheel to greet an oncoming driver.
“George’s old place.”
He nods slow, lifts another finger.“Kate and me still havin’ a tough time swallowing the fact. They think it was his heart?”
“Looked like it to me, I guess.”
Don faces me square. “You were with him?”
“Yeah.”
“Ain’t that the irony.” Don’s brows furrow and his lips purse.
“What?” I ask.
Don chugs into a cleared field. He shakes his head. “You were with him.”
“Why does that matter?”
He smiles, jumps out, and tinkers with a pump that extends its pipe arm into a small pond.
Two minutes later, he climbs back in the classic.
“A job for Dirk.”
“Who’s Dork?”
His jolly face disappears. “I said Dirk. He’s my son.”
chapter twenty-four
WE PUTT INTO THE FARMYARD, PARK, AND WALK toward the warm glow of the farmhouse.
Don throws open the screen door, glances at me, and winks. “Here’s the best part.”
“Home!”
Two girls dash up and give Don a squeeze. Don catches them up, hoists them beard level. “Oh, my sweeties.” Kiss to the left, kiss to the right. He sets them down and turns to me. “This here is Jack. He’ll be staying a couple nights.”
“Hi, Jack,” they answer, and tug on Don’s hands. “She’s so pretty, Daddy. She came with Jack and her name’s Naomi, but we can call her Nae. She doesn’t know how to do dishes or milk cows or anything.”
The thought of Naomi straddling a milking stool makes me chuckle.
“But she’s so nice. Can she sleep in our room? We’ll teach her everything!”
“I’m sure you will.” Don tousles my hair.“You brought a girl?”
An older boy pounds down steps and barges into the room, pretty crowded by now.
“You’re Mr. Keegan’s son? Oh, wow. I’m Stu.” He sticks out a callused hand. The kid looks thirteen. But when he moves his worked body, he adds three years.
We shake, and he turns toward Don.
“Let me do the pump, Dad, this one time.” Stu’s leg bounces. He’s eager as a puppy.
Don exhales, nods toward the door.
Stu’s gone.
“Boy loves machines.” Don smiles and waggles his head. “Now, where’s this pretty girl I’m hearing about?” He frowns at my hands. They’re obviously pretty conservative and I can guess what he’s wondering—a guy and a girl traveling the country alone together . . .
“We ain’t married or nothing,” I say.
“Girls, to your room.”
“But, Dad!”
One look from Don sends them scurrying. He turns to me. “Lord knows times have changed, and young’uns around here are making the same kinds of trips. But this is still my home. Makes me responsible for what happens under this roof. And no one”—he pauses and steps nearer—“no one—”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
Don throws his arm around me, and I flinch and jerk mightily. He escorts me through the kitchen. From deep in the house, Naomi laughs. It’s light and free and I haven’t yet heard it on our “family” trip. Nice to hear it now.
I enter the parlor, a fat, goofy smile plastered on my dumb face.
Naomi sits on the couch as she had in the truck, cross-legged and sideways, and gushes over some huge, husky guy. Reckon him about my age. He stares straight ahead and peeks at Nae only to offer “yes, ma’ams” and “no, ma’ams.” The guy is flustered—Naomi does that—and his hands fidget in his lap. Grimy overalls, gentle smile. Had Naomi not been drooling over him, I think we’d have gotten along. But she is, so I hate him.
Don gazes from his son to Naomi. “Finish up outside, Dirk.” The young man rises, walks toward me, and extends his hand. “Name’s Dirk. Pleased to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” We grip hands and squeeze, hard. To the observer, a greeting. To our whitening knuckles, a sizing up.
“’Fore ya go, seein’ you two together, I think tomorrow’d be a good time to put up my pasture fence.” Don licks his lips, nods. “Start in tomorrow morning. Stu will cover in the fields.”
“Yes, sir,” Dirk says.
“Will this be a cute white picket fence? I love how they look.”
Everyone turns and stares at Naomi.
“No.” Don finally speaks. “Just sturdy posts. Don’t think you’d find a white fence within a hundred miles of Henderson.” He turns to Dirk. “Get going, son.”
Yeah, get going. Dirk isn’t in any of my family-vacation mental photographs. I want him cropped out.
“Won’t you sit down, Jack?” Mrs. Fast motions toward the couch, but that’s where he had sat. His rear imprint’s on the cushion. I plop down on a rocker and face the floor, but not before I catch a confused look from Naomi.
The Fasts take seats, and for a minute no one speaks.
“Where do you go to church, Jack?” Don breaks silence.
“Nowhere.”
“Lydia doesn’t take you?” Don looks to his wife, who mouths the word Bill. Don grunts and nods. “
There’s no Mennonite church near you anyway.” He works a toothpick inside his mouth.
“Mennonites? Don’t they, like, well, I saw this movie and they were in buggies and the narrator said something about relatives marrying. That’s not you two,” Naomi says.
“Kate. You been holdin’ out on me? Are we cousins?” Don smiles.
“You know I couldn’t resist. That buggy of yours was so handsome.”
Our hosts laugh, and I shoot a glance at Naomi, who blushes.
“A few ride in buggies and live simply,” Kate says. “I think we look normal. I’m surprised Jack and George didn’t explain more to you.”
“Mom didn’t let Grandpa tell me anything,” Naomi explains. “I didn’t even know George was my grandpa until after he died.”
Don leans forward. “This is George’s Naomi?” He looks to Kate, who smiles in return. “James’s son and George’s granddaughter. In my house. How did you two meet?”
I listen to Mrs. Fast retell the race through the rain. She leaves out my flop into the mud.
Don leans back in the love seat and puts his arm around Kate.“Small world. Two runners. Little town.” He faces Naomi. “We Mennonites just try to serve folk and serve God.”
He looks at me. “And you. Being James’s son, don’t seem right you don’t meet up with God somewhere on Sundays.”
“I don’t think God visits Pierce. Least He doesn’t visit me.”
It’s quiet.
A hot feeling bubbles from my gut to my mouth. Whatever I say will be ugly.
“I ain’t my dad. I’ve only been to church twice. Once some church guy tried to cast out the ‘jerky demon,’ and once the preacher booted me out of the building ’cause I barked too loud.” My gaze rises, rests on Naomi, who bites her lip. Not the cute bite she showed Dirk.
I rise. No one moves.
“There you have it. I’m not James. So maybe you don’t want me here. Let me know and”—I look at Naomi—“I can be movin’ on. Promised George I’d make it to California, and that’s what I’m going to do.” I grunt hard.“I need a run.” Turning in to the kitchen, I hear Don clear his throat behind me.
As if I belong here or with Naomi or anywhere.
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