Canis Major
Page 62
Chapter 17
Driving south on I-65, Russell tried not to think about how badly he had broken down at the synagogue, how loudly and unabashedly he had screamed out in anguish when the rabbi tore Joel and Sarah’s shirt sleeves, but sometimes—hell, all of the time—the harder you try not to do something, the more apt you are to do it. He wasn’t screaming now, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t scream later. Truthfully, he didn’t care if he screamed in the silent cabin until his ear drums ruptured and he lost control of the truck. Not one iota did he care if his precious Ford F-150 flipped a hundred times and ejected his suit-clad body through the windshield like a black and white crash test dummy. He could live with it if he died. If he were to die right now as a red smear on the interstate, at least it would be a fitting end to a summer that should have never happened.
The funeral was way too sudden and bleak for Russell to discern any underlying glints of hope and serenity that he could take back home to nurture and grow. All he knew for certain was that somewhere behind him, in Montgomery, his best friend lay inside a plain, pine box underneath six feet of loosely-packed, black Alabama soil. Russell just wished he could join him.
Only Russell Whitford (Riley’s very own musical guru) could appreciate the irony and complete perverseness of Hector Graham’s presence at the funeral. What the hell is he doing there? he had thought upon seeing the fat slob after the service had ended and everybody was filing outside. He has no right being here. Yet there he was—decked out in an undersized rayon suit, leaning against a pole under a green, flapping awning. Hector had kept his oversized noggin bowed, lifting it only to meet Joel’s eyes when he took the former father’s hand into his.
That was when Russell had bolted. The sight of Pete’s dad and Hector Graham shaking hands like a couple of hunting buddies was enough to cinch his empty stomach and start his legs pumping. But even as he beat a path to his truck, he was wanting to run back and explain to Joel that the phony, fat-ass, no-good fuck he was currently shaking hands with had once punched his son in the stomach for no other reason than to knock him down a notch. Then, in his mind, he had punched Hector’s round, blubbery gut as hard as he could and ran away.
Why would I run away?
Because I’m chickenshit. Even in my fantasies, I’m chickenshit.
Then, fumbling for the keys in his pocket, Russell had grown bolder. He’d stopped and turned, as if to march back to the congregation of mourners, find the largest one, and do to him what he had once done to Pete.
And that would have been the worst act he could have possibly committed at his best friend’s funeral: to make himself, once again, the center of attention. But the desire was there, palpable and hot, to do it anyway, to make Hector feel physical pain, because, God knew, he was incapable of feeling any other kind.
In the end, Russell had climbed into his truck and driven calmly away. Whatever Hector was trying to do—whatever he was trying to prove—Russell didn’t want to be around when he did it. He didn’t want to cause a scene, not out of respect for Pete, but out of respect for Pete’s parents and family, whose emotions were already so frayed.
So he drove south on I-65, trying not to think about ripped shirts, or unexpected guests, or dead friends, but thinking about them anyway. Because the harder you try not to think about something…
PETE’S DEAD! HE FELL FROM HIS ROOF AND NOW HE’S DEAD!!!
[This summer really sucks.]
What the hell was Hector even doing there? He was never Pete’s friend. He hated Pete.
What kind of friend am I? I abandoned him, reneged on a promise. If I can’t keep a simple promise made to a friend, then what does that make me?
[A pitiful, selfish person.]
I should have been up there with him. We were supposed to watch the shower together, but I lied and told him I wasn’t feeling good. Had I been there, he wouldn’t have fallen, and he’d still be alive.
Pete’s DEAD!
Who is Hector to show up at Pete’s funeral and shake Joel’s hand and offer him that tight-lipped smile of condolence? Who does he think he is? Me? That should have been me shaking Joel’s hand. I was Pete’s friend. Not Hector.
[Maybe he’s changed.]
"I need some sleep," Russell said out loud. "Sleep will make things better."
But that was a lie. Sleep never made things better. All sleep ever did was momentarily erase reality, offer a few brief seconds of respite. And once those seconds were used up, consciousness came crashing back. Reality can’t be denied.
"Or maybe I’ll play some piano."
That, too, amounted to the same as sleep—just a different form of it: a means of temporarily escaping the world of structure and disappearing into the world of sound. There is only one real world, and that world is soundless and uncreative. Artists don’t exist in the real world, only rearrangers of pigments and tones. It’s a world where one is better off not getting attached to anything or anyone, because everything and everyone that one holds dear is forfeit to pernicious forces that are all too eager to take those things and people away. Where they go is of no concern, because once they’re gone…
"…they’re gone forever." Russell said, squeezing his nostrils together. Thousands of needles pricked the walls of his sinuses, urging him to do that thing that releases snot and tears in clear, salty rivers, to be a girl—or a wimp—and do what those inferior humans invariably do when times get too rough and emotions run too high. In Russell’s experience, the only way to quell that sensation was by pinching his nose. Either that or crying. But he had done enough of that for one day.