“And then it’s not disrespectful.”
“Right.”
“I’m talking too much. Aren’t I?”
“Well. I don’t know about that. Too much for who?”
“My dad said I shouldn’t talk too much.”
“But how do you know what’s too much?”
“I asked him that exact same thing. He said if I talk the way I usually do, that would be too much.”
August laughed, and it surprised Seth, who didn’t seem to understand what part of that was funny.
“Tell you what,” August said. “If I think it’s too much, I’ll say something. Something like, ‘How about some quiet for a while?’ If I don’t say that, it’s not too much.”
“Sure, okay,” Seth said.
Then he was dead silent through the rest of California.
Chapter Four:
MEETINGS
“Nevada state line,” August said. “Two miles.”
Seth’s head snapped up. “Henry! You hear that?” He craned his neck around to check on his little brother.
August glanced in the rearview mirror. Henry was struggling to wake up. Woody was still hanging half over his lap.
“Henry! Listen! A whole new state! Nevada. We never been to Nevada before. You gotta wake up. You gotta see this.”
“Really never been to Nevada?” August asked.
“Never.”
“Not so very far from where you live.”
“Really? Seems far. Anyway, we never went.”
“What other states have you been in besides California?”
“None of ’em. Can we stop?”
“Stop? I’m not sure what you mean. Stop where?”
“In Nevada.”
“Well . . . Seth . . . we’ll be going through Nevada for a while. We’ll be making lots of stops.”
“But I mean when we first get there. I want to see if it’s different.”
“It’s not very different. One mile this side of the state line is a lot like one mile across it.”
“Oh,” Seth said. “Okay.” His disappointment was heartbreakingly obvious. “It’s up to you where you stop or where you don’t. That’s fine. And you’re probably right. I just kind of wanted to feel it for myself.”
“It feels different to me,” Seth said. “I can’t even really say how. It just does.”
He stood on the curb at a highway rest stop. They were close enough to the state line sign to read it. August held Woody’s leash, partially standing his ground as the dog pulled him over toward more interesting smells. Better places to lift his leg.
“I’ll accept that,” August said.
He looked down at Henry, who huddled close to his brother’s side. “What do you think, Henry? Is Nevada different?”
Henry quickly turned his face away.
“Do you have a camera?” Seth asked. “Would you get mad if I asked you to take a picture of that sign? The one that says we’re in Nevada?”
“Seth, I won’t get mad no matter what you ask me. I might say yes or I might say no, but I won’t get mad at you for asking. I’ll take a picture of the sign. Only thing is we’re on the wrong side of it now.”
“No, we’re on the perfect side of it, August.”
“But you want to see the sign that says, ‘Welcome to Nevada.’ Or however it says it. From this direction you’ll get ‘Welcome to California.’ And ‘Nevada Says Drive Carefully, Come Back Soon.’ ”
“No, this is right. This way. Because if the sign says we’re just getting into Nevada, then we didn’t yet. But if it’s Nevada saying drive careful, then that’s where we are.”
“That’s actually reasonable logic,” August said. “Here. Hold Woody’s leash.”
He walked the few paces back to the motor home, unlocked and opened the driver’s side, and pulled his camera out of the door’s inside map pocket. Then he lined up a good view of the sign, zoomed in close, and snapped off a shot. Even though he had been to Nevada many times.
“Thanks,” Seth said. “I want to remember this.”
“No problem. You guys hungry?”
“I am,” Seth said. He leaned over and whispered in his brother’s ear. Although August could see or hear no response, Seth quickly added, “Yeah. We are. Thank you for asking.”
“How do you feel about ham and cheese sandwiches?”
“We like ham and cheese sandwiches. Don’t we, Henry?”
Henry didn’t answer.
They ate at a rest stop picnic table under a stand of shade trees to give everybody more time outside. Woody sat rapt on the grass between Henry and Seth, head shifting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, clearly hoping for a dropped—or contributed—bite.
“This’s a good sandwich,” Seth said. “Thank you, August. Henry, isn’t this a good sandwich?”
A barely perceptible nod from Henry.
“See, that’s Henry’s way of saying thank you.”
“Look. Seth. You’re a very polite guy. And I appreciate that about you. But, really . . . it’s kind of a given that I’m going to feed you. I wouldn’t have you along if I didn’t plan to take decent care of you.”
Seth nodded, seeming a trifle chastened.
They ate in silence for a time.
Then Seth asked, “Do you hate this?”
August looked up suddenly, but the boy wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Do I . . . what? Do I hate what?”
“This. You know. Having to take us. I know you didn’t really want to.”
“I don’t hate it. No.”
“Who would want somebody else’s kids along all summer? Nobody I know.”
“I wouldn’t have said yes if I hated the idea.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“But you don’t exactly like it, I guess.”
“Maybe a little quiet for a while,” August said.
And Seth gave him that.
About sixty miles down the road, August stopped and filled up the gas tank. It was hot outside, so even though they were driving with the air-conditioning on and even though he was paying for the gas with a credit card at the pump, August ducked into the convenience store to buy three sodas. As he stood in line at the cash register, he noticed disposable cameras for sale in a rack on the counter. So he took down two, checking to be sure he was getting thirty-six exposures each, and slid them across the counter with the cold drinks.
A bored-looking teenaged boy rang it up and put it all in a paper sack for him. August carried it back out into the heat, opened the driver’s-side door and set the bag on the seat. Then he cleaned the windshield, stepping up on the front bumper to be able to reach it all. He replaced the gas nozzle, snagged his receipt from the pump, and climbed back into the driver’s seat, moving the bag so he could sit down.
He pulled out one cold soda, then handed the bag to Seth.
“This is for you and your brother,” he said.
Seth looked inside, but apprehensively. As though August might have brought him a bag of snakes.
“Just the sodas, though. Right?”
“No. Everything in there is for you and Henry.”
“You bought us cameras?”
“Just the cheap disposable kind.”
“I never had a camera before. Not any kind.”
“I thought it might be nice if you could decide for yourself what you want to remember. Put your seat belt back on. We’re going to drive again.”
“Okay,” Seth said, and he did.
August looked over his shoulder at Henry, but could see that Henry had never taken his off.
“How many pictures is it?” Seth asked.
“Thirty-six each. But you can have copies of all my pictures when we get back. Just that, if it’s something I wouldn’t think to take a picture of, like the Nevada sign, but it feels important to you for some reason, you can have some pictures of your own.”
Silence.
August pulled away fro
m the pump and merged back into traffic, headed for the freeway ramp. As he was pulling onto the ramp, Seth spoke.
“I can say thank you for that. Right?”
“You can say thank you for anything you want. But I know what you mean. The cameras are a little more above and beyond than food. So . . . you’re welcome.”
Out of the corner of his eye, August watched Seth open the little box around the camera and tear open the foil pouch that contained it. Seth peered closely at the printed directions on the cardboard sleeve for a minute.
“Here, Henry,” Seth said. “I’m going to give you this one for yours. And you do it like this. You wind it this way till it stops. Then you press this button to take the picture. Then you wind it till it stops again so you’re ready for the next picture.”
He reached the camera as far as he could behind his seat, and Henry leaned forward and stretched his hands out to receive it. It caused him to lean part of his torso onto Woody’s head, but Woody didn’t move or appear to mind. In fact, he didn’t wake up.
August watched in the rearview mirror as Henry carefully wound the camera and aimed it straight down at the sleeping dog on his lap. August heard the click of the shutter button. Then Henry wound to the next stop and slid the camera into his shirt pocket, turned his head, and stared back out the window again.
“Seth,” August said, and shook him lightly by the shoulder. “Hey. Buddy.”
It was three minutes before 8 p.m. Probably earlier than the boys were used to falling asleep. But there was something about a moving vehicle. And all those hypnotizing miles.
August looked up again at the windows of the building, glowing with light. He’d found a double parking space on the street right beside it, a stroke of luck. He was only 90 percent sure it was the building he was looking for. But the handful of parked cars indicated just enough activity to feel right.
Seth stirred, stretched. Looked around and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we, August?”
“No place special. This is not where we’ll spend the night or anything. We’re just in a little town in Nevada, and I wanted you to know I’m going to be gone for an hour and a half.”
“Where’re you going?” Seth asked, sounding a bit alarmed.
“Just into this building right here,” he said, and pointed. “Henry’s fast asleep. You can look after him, right?”
“Sure, I look after Henry all the time, but . . .”
“I just have to go to a meeting.”
“A meeting? But you’re on vacation.”
“Different kind of meeting. Not a business meeting.”
“But you don’t know anybody in this town, do you?”
“It’s kind of a long story, buddy. And the meeting’s about to start. How about if I tell you what it’s about, but later?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll lock up. So nobody can get in. And Woody’ll guard the place anyway. But if you have any problems or get scared or anything feels like it’s wrong, just honk the horn.”
“Does the ignition have to be turned on?”
“No. The horn works without the ignition on.”
“ ’Cause with some horns, the ignition has to be on.”
“Not this one. It’s wired to the battery. Comes in handy in bear country. Sometimes you have to make a lot of noise to chase them out of your campsite in the middle of the night.”
“Are we going where there are bears?” Seth asked. Trying to sound casual. Not quite succeeding.
“We’re going where there are grizzly bears.”
Seth’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t answer.
“But we’ll be careful. Gotta go, buddy.”
August patted Woody on the head and walked through the rig to the back door. Just as his hand touched the door handle, Seth spoke up again.
“August? Am I really your buddy?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t you be?”
“I don’t know. I just didn’t know that.”
“Well . . . I figure we’ll all be buddies soon enough. So I jumped ahead a little.”
August walked into the warm, softly lit room just as the secretary of the meeting asked if there were any newcomers. If there had been, that might’ve taken up time, but as there weren’t, the secretary moved right on to visitors.
August found a seat and sat down with his hand raised. “My name is August, and I’m an alcoholic from San Diego. And I’m sorry I’m late.”
There were eight other people at the long table. Six men and two women. They said, nearly in unison, “Hi, August. Welcome.”
Because that’s the way they did things at a meeting. Didn’t matter where you were from, or even where you were now. It didn’t matter if they knew you. At some very basic level it didn’t even matter if you’d been drinking, though fortunately August hadn’t needed to test that theory. You just showed up, and you were welcome.
When the basket had been passed and secretary announcements and reports handled, the secretary suggested that August might want to lead. Share his story first. If he was willing. Not terribly unusual for a visitor, in his experience. Still, he’d expected the reading of the steps and traditions to buy him some time. But apparently he had missed them by being late.
Immediately he felt a pushback against sharing. These other people were at home. He was not. They’d had time to adjust to the energy of the room and the people, which were familiar to begin with. He had not. He pushed the feeling away again and did it anyway.
“My name is August and I’m an alcoholic,” he said again.
Then he paused while they greeted him a second time. It was just how things were done.
“I’ll just go ahead and say what I say at every meeting, every time I share. The only difference is the count of days. I have nineteen months and three days sober as of today. My sobriety date is a year ago last November third. The day my nineteen-year-old son died. I haven’t had a drink since that day.
“I’m going to be really honest and say I never exactly thought of myself as a falling-down drunk. I drank a lot, probably too much. I never got in trouble for it, but maybe I would have if nothing had stopped me. I always figured I could stop if I wanted, but I can’t prove that for a fact because I never wanted.”
A light ripple of reaction. What might have been laughter if he hadn’t started his story on such a serious note. August briefly waited it out.
“Nobody told me to stop, probably because my wife drank just about the way I did, and my son had too much respect for me to give advice. Maybe he thought my drinking was still within some kind of acceptable range. I don’t know what he thought. I wish he were here. I’d ask him.
“A year ago November third he was riding in the car with my wife, and she started up at a green light . . . pulled into the intersection. But somebody was in the process of running the red. Easy enough to put it off on a red-light runner, and I think we both tried. But usually before you start up at a green you take some little glance to make sure the way is clear. You know. There’s that situational awareness born out of survival instinct. Anyway, the guy T-boned our car on the passenger side, and my son was killed instantly. My wife walked away. Well, my wife at the time. My ex-wife now. Not as lucky for her as it may sound, walking away. At least that’s my view of the situation.
“We kept waiting for toxicology reports. It was probably a day before we heard, but it felt like a month. I kept asking her to tell me, but she said she’d been fine. But I figured she’d been drunk. But the reports came back, and she hadn’t been drunk. And she wasn’t charged with any crime. But she had alcohol in her system. She always had alcohol in her system. Just not over the legal limit. Close to the limit, but not over it.”
August braved a glance at the faces of the three men right across the table. They leaned forward in absolute silent and undivided attention. He looked away again.
“I swear to God I think it would’ve been kinder for her if they’d thrown her in jail. At least then she’d get out a
fter a while. But when nobody punishes you, you have to do it yourself, and there’s no release date on that. We’re always harder on ourselves than any governing body could ever get away with being.
“To this day I can’t say for a fact that things would’ve gone differently if her blood alcohol had been zero. But I feel like it would have been different, and I guess I’ll always feel that way. Her reflexes would’ve been a little bit sharper. Our splitting up wasn’t because I needed to punish her. It wasn’t like that. I don’t know what I needed. I don’t even know what I need now. She still hasn’t stopped drinking. I don’t want to judge her for that. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to stop, either, if I’d been driving that car that day. I don’t want to judge her, but maybe at some level I judge her every day whether I want to or not. Whether I mean to or not. It’s one thing to know the right path and another thing to take it. But I never set out to throw her away. I never set out to throw anything away. It just all fell apart. I’d look at her every day and try to fathom how I’d feel if I were her, and I couldn’t imagine, but I knew I didn’t want to find out. I knew that if a couple of drinks could turn into that kind of life or death situation at any moment without any warning, then I wasn’t going to have even one. Not even a sip.
“It’s funny. Well . . . maybe not really funny under the circumstances, but . . . the principal of my school—where I teach—lost her husband. A few months ago. I was sitting with her one day at lunch, and she knew I’d lost my son, so we were talking. So finally I asked her what had happened to her husband. You know. If she didn’t mind saying. I was kind of shocked, but what she said was, ‘He drank too much.’ She never said what actually killed him. If it was his liver, or . . . I don’t know, and I didn’t want to press for details. But she made it clear that the direct answer to the question of how he died was that he drank too much. And she didn’t seem ashamed of the fact, either. She sounded very . . . understanding. Very tolerant. She said he’d had a lot of stress in his job, in his life, and that was what he did to handle it.
Take Me With You Page 4