Going Places

by Kathryn Berla

  “I don’t want these,” I protested.

  “Of course you do. Today only.” She turned to the clerk. “How much?”

  “I’ll need to see some ID,” the clerk said.

  “Of course you need to see ID!” Alana turned to me, grinning. “Hudson, show the nice man your ID.”

  I did it gladly because she was getting such a kick out of it. And I must admit when I gave my ID to the clerk and he looked at it and then looked at me, it was kind of a rush. I know I seemed much younger than eighteen, but here I was with a real ID doing something perfectly legal.

  Alana laughed and threw her arm around me as we walked out the door. I tossed the cigarettes in the nearest garbage can but kept the porn.

  Then it was on to early bird dinner at a local vegetarian restaurant. Would I expect anything else from Alana Love? But, hey, she was paying. By then her mood had slumped again, and she was unusually quiet over dinner.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you going to make me drag it out of you? And by the way, I really don’t want to do that.”

  I tried to laugh it off like I was joking even though I wasn’t, but she didn’t laugh back. I was a little peeved. This was supposed to be my birthday celebration. She slurped the last of her green smoothie through a straw and then looked up at me with those enormous kitten eyes. Or were they puppy eyes?

  “It’s nothing, I don’t want to be a downer on your birthday.” She sighed. “It’s just Bryce.”

  Bryce wasn’t invited to my birthday dinner and neither was any talk of him, so I didn’t say anything.

  “But since you asked,” she went on after a pause that didn’t lead to any follow-up on my part, “I’ll tell you, if you really want to know.”

  “Sure. Why not?” Could she have missed the disinterest in my voice? Apparently.

  “We usually have lunch together, by that tree near the auto shop. You know where it is?”

  Of course I knew where it was. I knew exactly where Alana ate lunch last year when she first came to our school. I wondered whether the more self-conscious you were, the more you were conscious of others. I wondered if Alana knew where Cameron, Eunice, and I ate lunch last year, or where my locker was. I didn’t wonder, I knew. She didn’t.

  “Yeah, I know where it is.”

  “But ever since football, the guys on the team have been pressuring him to eat with them at their table. You know where that is? Where the two benches are pushed together next to the fountain?”

  What did she take me for, a blind man? I was a senior, but unlike her, I’d been cognizant of the social chess game for more than three years.

  “Yes, I know where they eat,” I answered tersely. The broccoli quiche wasn’t quite cutting it at that moment.

  “A couple of times I’ve just gone with Gus and Penelope for lunch and told Bryce to hang out with his football friends. I mean, I don’t want to be a drag on him, and I know it’ll be over as soon as football season’s over.”

  “Yeah.” Somehow, I doubted it would be over then, but I didn’t say so.

  “I think I’ve been bending over backwards to give him his space. I’m not exactly the clingy type.”

  “The clingy type. What does that even mean? I mean if you like someone and all . . .” No I didn’t have insight into these types of games, but I threw it out there to see if it would stick. She basically ignored my question and went on.

  “And then today he drops it on me that a bunch of them are going away for a week during Christmas break to Hawaii. Some guy on the team, his dad is really rich, and he rented a huge house a block away from the beach.”

  “Maybe they want to finish up the season with some of that male bonding shit. Could be worse.” I envisioned a week over winter break with just me and Alana and nothing to do all day. And no Bryce in the picture.

  “That would be fine if it was just male bonding, but there are some girls invited too. There’ll be ten kids in all. Six guys and four girls.”

  “Oh, well . . . not you?” Even better. Maybe Alana would break up with Bryce over this. I just had to be cool and supportive.

  “No, not me. Exactly my point.”

  “So where does that leave you?”

  “That leaves me nowhere, which is why we had a big fight today.”

  I started working on my green smoothie which was suddenly surprisingly tasty.

  “What would you do if you were me, Hudson? Do you think I should break up with him if he goes?”

  Now, even I knew this was a trap. If I said “yes,” then she might question my motives. If I said “no,” she stays with Bryce.

  “I can’t make that decision for you,” I shifted the tone of my voice to mature concern. “You have to decide what you can and can’t put up with.”

  Break up with him, I said in my head.

  Alana stared down at her soup as though the answer were to be found somewhere in the bowl. Finally she looked up. “He’s not like those other guys, Hudson. If he was, you know I wouldn’t be with him. He’s different. He’s like us.”

  Like us.

  “Does he want to travel after he graduates?”

  “No. Not like us that way. He’s going to college, but I think it’s just to make his parents happy.”

  Not like us.

  “Anyway, this is my problem, not yours. It’s your birthday. Tell me about your novel. What’ve you decided?”

  “I destroyed it,” I said flatly. “You were right. It was crap.”

  “No! No! You shouldn’t ever do that. Keep everything for when you’re famous. Someday all your early stuff will be valuable.”

  I couldn’t imagine popcorn-man ever being valuable and my face must have betrayed that.

  “Okay, well, what’s done is done. But I’ll bet you’re working on something new. What is it?”

  “I have some ideas.” I picked up a whole-wheat roll and started gnawing on it. “I’ll let you know when it’s far enough along.”

  “Fair enough.” Alana pulled her backpack onto her lap and started riffling through its contents. “I have your present. Promise you won’t laugh.” She pulled out a scroll tied up with a ribbon and passed it across the table to me.

  I unwound it carefully. It was a sketch she’d done of me from the neck up, pretty decent likeness. And all around me, the great landmarks of the world—the Eiffel Tower, Pyramids, Leaning Tower of Pisa, Big Ben. As tribute to my fantasy, there was even a tropical island in the upper left corner. A blue lagoon dimpled its center like a thumbprint cookie. The message was clear. This was my future. Our future. I’d be her companion, standing in for Bryce who had chosen college over traveling with Alana. I can’t say I minded. In fact, I was touched and honored.

  Don’t put off doing your homework . . .

  . . . until late at night, especially if it requires even the smallest amount of creativity, like an art project. But after dinner Alana and I went to a movie, and by the time I got home after dropping her off, even Mom was asleep. For me, going right up against a deadline was typical, so when the phone rang at midnight, I was still wide awake and not even close to being finished. Once again, I thought (hoped) it was Alana, and once again it turned out to be Pirkle. Another butt-dial? Or worse yet, a drunk dial?

  “Is everything okay, sir?”

  “Hudson, is that you?”

  “Yes. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. I’m not feeling well . . . and I thought if maybe it isn’t too much trouble for you to stop by . . .”

  “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No, Heavens no. Please. If you could just stop by for a minute, I’ll be fine.”

  I thought about my art project. I thought about the late hour. I thought about the so-called “robbery” and the strange late night calls. I thought abou
t the predictable and easy money that came from walking dogs, and how dogs didn’t call you to come over in the middle of the night. I thought about the much more significant stream of income I got from Distress Dial. But I hadn’t anticipated people actually using it.

  “Of course,” I said. “I should be able to make it in ten minutes at this time of night.” I hoped the reminder of the late hour might change his mind. But it didn’t.

  “Thanks, Hudson, sure appreciate it. I’ll keep an eye out for you.” His voice sounded thin and shaky. Not very imposing.

  >>>

  When I arrived at Pirkle’s house, it was lit up like a Christmas tree. The front door swung open before I could even get out of the car.

  “Really sorry to do this to you, Hudson,” Pirkle said once I was inside. The picture of the little girl was back on the bookshelf. “I know it’s late. And a weekday, at that.” He sipped from a glass of what I hoped was water.

  “No problem,” I waited for an explanation but when none came, I dug. “Were you feeling sick or something?”

  Normally, he had a way of ducking his head and squinting when he spoke. Like he was bypassing your skull and looking right at the important stuff inside. But that night his eyes were unfocused instead of the laser beams I was used to. There was something there. Fear maybe.

  “I might have been a little sick, I’m not sure.” He paused for a minute. “For a second, I wasn’t sure where I was. Thought I was back in the old house.”

  Not knowing how to respond, I said nothing.

  “I’m ninety years old, Hudson. Can you believe it?”

  It wasn’t really a question. I knew he was talking to himself and that he was the one who really couldn’t believe it. I almost-kind-of knew how he felt because I couldn’t believe I’d just turned eighteen. Both of us surprised by our age. As if age is a destination we arrived at without remembering how we got there.

  “No, I can’t believe it,” I said without meaning it. “You look too young to be ninety.”

  “Ninety,” his eyes glazed over. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  My art project called to me. I’d left a note on my bed in case Mom woke up. I was wound up and slightly resentful. I felt two knots of pain brewing behind my eyeballs. A long, sleepless night loomed ahead of me, and I’d have to stop at the mini-mart for coffee on the way home. I’m ashamed to say of all the things going through my mind just then, Mr. Pirkle was at the bottom of the list.

  “What house?” I asked. “What house did you think you were in?”

  “Oh.” He seemed surprised by the question. “The house I lived in when I was a young man. When I was married.”

  “You were married? What happened to your wife?”

  So maybe not the best way of asking, but I was just plain tired and a little curious.

  “My wife? We divorced a long time ago. So long ago that it’s sometimes hard for me to remember what she looked like. Funny, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said, although I didn’t think it was funny. To forget a person who once meant everything to you. Someone you’d once loved enough to marry. I didn’t think that could ever happen to me, or at least I hoped it couldn’t. I looked at the picture of the little girl.

  “So . . . are you okay now?” I leaned forward in my chair to get the ache out of my lower back. “I could call someone to come over, if you want. Is there anyone?”

  “If there was anyone to call I wouldn’t have called you. That’s the point, isn’t it? The point of your service?”

  I felt like an idiot. Of course it was the point.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Pirkle?”

  “Do you know a good story?” he chuckled, but I knew he was serious.

  “A good story? For real?”

  “For real? Is that what young people say? Okay, then. Do you know a good story for real?”

  He picked up the glass and sipped from it again. His hand trembled, his white knuckles betrayed how tightly he was holding on. He passed his upper lip over the lower one to remove the leftover moisture.

  “Okay, a good story,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “Let me think for a minute. Could it be a made-up story or should it be real?” I was buying time. I had no idea.

  “Since you said for real, make it a real story.”

  He just wanted to hear me talk, so I probably could have said anything. Even made up something, without him knowing it. But I reached back for the story that had always brought me comfort because it was comfort I knew he was after.

  “When I was seven years old,” I began, “my father was going away. He was always coming and going, so I was used to it. And I knew it would be a long time before I saw him again, but I was used to that too. That was our life. Since he was leaving the next day, he had to run to the store to pick up a few things. I wanted to go with him, but Mom told me I needed to take my bath and get ready for bed. I could wait up for him, she said. And he wouldn’t be long. Dad told me he’d bring home a present if I was good and did what Mom said.

  “What do you want? he asked. And I asked what I could have. Anything, he said. And since he said I could have anything, I went all out and asked for a car. He laughed and said he’d bring me a car.

  “I could hardly believe my good luck, so I hurried to get ready. I brushed my teeth, took my bath, got into my PJ’s. And then I got in bed to wait for Dad to come back from the store. Mom read me a story while we waited.”

  Mr. Pirkle was visibly relaxing. He set the glass of water on the coffee table, his hand steady again. He didn’t look right at me while I spoke, but occasionally he’d lift his eyes and nod his head to let me know he’d heard what I was saying and wanted to hear more.

  “So finally, Dad was home, and he came into my bedroom where I’d been waiting, crazy excited. I thought he’d say something like, Come out to the garage, son. Your new car is waiting. That’s what I was expecting, as ridiculous as it sounds. But instead, he fished around in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out one of those matchbox cars. You know the kind?”

  Mr. Pirkle nodded.

  “It was just this little orange sedan-type car with a white stripe that ran the length of the hood and roof. My heart sank, and my face must have too. I actually thought Dad was going to give me a real car. Mom got up and left us alone, and Dad sat down on the side of my bed. He started racing the car up and down the covers of my bed, making these racing engine noises. Then he asked me if I wanted to race it, but I said I didn’t. I was still pretty disappointed.

  “He put the car on the bedside table and lay down beside me. Let’s take a drive in your car, he said. Where do you want to go? It seemed like a silly idea to me, but I played along with him.

  To Disneyland, I guess.

  Who’s going to drive? he asked. Me or you?

  Me.

  Okay, put on your seatbelt. I’ll sit in the back, and we’ll let Mom sit up front with you, okay?

  Okay. But she has to put on her seatbelt too.

  Of course!

  “And it went on like that while I pulled out of the driveway and hit the freeway, and somehow the car turned into a convertible and the top was down and the wind was blowing through Mom’s hair. It was dark, but the full moon was so bright we could see everything. Then we got to Disneyland and pulled right up to the front where there was a special parking spot that said Reserved for Hudson Wheeler’s special car. After that, Mickey and Goofy came out the front gate to personally welcome us, and they shut down the whole park so just me and Mom and Dad could go on any ride we wanted with no lines, and all the food was free, and at the end of the evening they had a special parade and fireworks display just for us.

  “By the time Dad and I finished the story, which ended with us all coming home and being so exhausted we fell into bed and went to sleep right away, I was p
retty happy. A real car didn’t seem so important anymore.

  “Dad picked up the little car on my bedside table and put it on my pillow. This car . . . It’s a way for you to imagine all the places you want to go and all things you want to do, he said. Right there. He tapped my forehead with his finger. Then he pulled out a picture of me that he kept in his wallet. It’s the same thing I do when I want to be with you. I just look at your picture, and I’m with you no matter where I am or what I’m doing. Right here. He tapped on the spot right over his heart. And at that moment I had everything I ever wanted.”

  Mr. Pirkle nodded his head, although he wasn’t looking at me. Almost like he knew what was coming next and, who knows, maybe he did.

  “When my father died, they told me he was holding onto a picture of me,” I said. “So I’ve always known I was with him when he needed me most.”

  I’d thought of this story so many times, but I never told it to anyone, not even Mom.

  “Your father,” Mr. Pirkle said. “Military?”

  “Army. He was killed in Iraq.”

  “It’s a shame, Hudson. Your father should have lived to see the fine young man you’ve become.”

  “Can I do something else for you, Mr. Pirkle?” I felt completely drained.

  “I’m fine, Hudson. You can take off now. Sorry to keep you up so late.”

  Outside, I sat in my car for a while. I knew what was still waiting for me at home, but I wanted to make sure Pirkle was okay. I thought I’d wait for his lights to go off, but they never did. After about fifteen minutes, I pulled away from the curb and drove home. It had been a long time since I’d felt Dad’s presence as intensely as I did that night.

  After Halloween and before

  Thanksgiving . . .

  . . . I finally figured out the rhythm of homeschooling, and it was perfect for me. I had weekly meetings with the homeschool teacher who worked out of our school district’s office. Mrs. Pereira took a relaxed approach and let me take part in creating my own curriculum, especially in English where we had more flexibility. There was assigned reading, but it was tailored towards my interests, and she agreed to let me create a graphic novel for my senior project.