The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  Even though it’s not raining anymore, water has puddled all over the street, and it sloshes under my tires. Stella shouts something from up ahead, but I can’t make out the words. Soon after, she veers right onto a side street, and I follow. There’s a sign ahead, lit up in greens and yellows. In big, loopy script the neon spells the word FERRELL’S. Under that, in smaller letters, DRIVE-IN. A large flashing arrow points below, to a restaurant. The building itself is small—nothing more than a box with a large, lit window and a single door. The attraction seems to be the giant metal canopy that encircles the building and the dozen slots fitted beneath it, each big enough to accommodate a car.

  “It’s a different kind of drive-in,” says Stella as we skid to a stop.

  She dismounts and wheels her bike to the building. An attendant appears at the big window, and Stella waves me over.

  “Come on,” she says. “See what the real world has to offer.”

  I wheel my bike to where she stands, hands on hips, looking at the menu marquee.

  “I highly recommend the chocolate malt,” she tells me. “As for the food, you can’t go wrong with anything. You ever had a burger?”

  I consider lying, to save face. In the end I shake my head. “We don’t eat those.”

  “You don’t eat meat?”

  “Sure. We eat eggs. Sometimes chicken. We don’t eat . . . burgers.”

  “Well, this is only my opinion, but, Galliard, I think you need a burger.”

  “Okay.”

  She’s watching me. I clear my throat—not a tic this time—and concentrate on the menu options. The truth is, I’m lost. I don’t know what the hell the words “tater tot” and “slushie” and “Coney” mean.

  “Hey.” Stella’s voice is soft, and closer than I expected. She barely touches my elbow. “I can order for you.”

  “If you want,” I say, like I’m granting her a favor.

  She heads up to the window. The attendant takes down her order and tells us it will be up in five minutes or so. Then Stella places something on the counter between them, and I realize it’s money.

  “Oh hey, wait, I can pay.” I reach into my jeans pocket, but it’s too late. The attendant’s already taken the money, transaction complete.

  Stella smiles at me. “Don’t worry about it. My treat.”

  She waves at the space around us. There are only two cars here; I guess the rain has kept people away. Nearer to us are a half-dozen metal tables and benches.

  “Where do you want to eat?” Stella asks. “We could pretend to be a car and sit in a space. I recommend a table, though.”

  I choose the table farthest from the building and closest to the flashing neon arrow.

  As we’re sitting, I start to tic. This one is a blink-and-throat-clearing combo.

  Cool, Jimi. Grant me cool.

  “Did Craig ever tell you he wrote me?” Stella asks.

  Please. Give me cool.

  “Uh,” I say. “Phoenix, you mean?”

  A look crosses Stella’s face. Like I’ve twisted her arm until it hurts. “Right. Phoenix. I don’t know if he ever mentioned that he and I have been writing letters back and forth. You don’t have to worry; he’s not sharing commune secrets or anything. I guess your leaders would censor his letters if they thought he was. He never talks about his life in there. We discuss bigger things.”

  “Bigger things?” I blink forcefully.

  I feel like such a fraud right now. I know all about the bigger things: Carl Sagan, space, scientific theories. I’ve read every single one of them.

  “Yeah. Science and art and what we think about life in general. I write him about books I’m reading, and he and I talk about them. It’s a bunch of nothing, really.”

  I could tell her now. I should. It’s the perfect segue, handed to me on a platter. I don’t want to tell her like this, though, while I’m ticking and she’s pretending she doesn’t notice but clearly does.

  “All right! Two burgers, two fries, two malts.”

  My conscience is spared by our bubble gum–chewing attendant, who has reached our table via roller skates and slides our trays before us with practiced ease. Then she’s off, and Stella’s expression has changed to one of excitement.

  “This is it,” she says. “Your first burger.”

  “Uh-huh.” I look at the small, grease-stained box before me.

  “Don’t think too hard. Just pick it up and eat.”

  Stella takes her own burger out of its box. Using both hands, she raises it to her mouth and bites in.

  “I don’t need a demonstration,” I tell her.

  “Okay, fine. Then eat it.”

  Sound bursts from my throat—three hrms in quick succession. When that’s over, I take a first bite, then a second. And it’s good. The flavor hits my tongue and coats my mouth, and it’s like nothing I’ve had in the commune, where usual meals consist of salads and beans and the occasional fried egg. This is something more. It takes over my senses and leaves me with only one thought: I have to eat more of it. I devour the burger, without stopping to try a fry or some of the malt. Stella’s staring at me again, but I don’t mind, because she’s smiling.

  “See?” she says when I’m through. “See what you’ve been missing?”

  I look at the empty box. “That was good.”

  She points at the remaining food on my tray. “You might want to get started on the malt before it melts.”

  We don’t talk for the next few minutes. We just eat, and Stella casts me the occasional grin. Like she knew how this would affect me. When we finish, I tell her about the deli Archer took me to, and she scrunches her nose in disapproval.

  “I mean, Frank’s is okay,” she says, “but it definitely shouldn’t have been your first experience. That’s the kind of food you get on a workday, when you’re more concerned about nourishment than fun.”

  “Do you go there a lot?” I ask.

  “Every once in a while. I work across the street, at the salon. Most days I pack a lunch. If I forget, though, I’ll grab a sandwich. They’re not bad. The Reuben, especially.”

  I have no idea what a Reuben is. Over the past few days, I’ve realized that I have no idea what a lot of things are. They’re small things, but they’re everywhere, all over the Outside. And suddenly that lack of knowing seems to be pressing in, suffocating me. How am I supposed to keep up with all of it? How does anyone?

  I’m about to ask for a definition of “Reuben”—fill in this one tiny speck in a gaping hole of ignorance—when Stella’s expression changes. She’s looking past me, at first confused and then pleased.

  I hear a shout at my back. “Stell, what the hell are you doing here?”

  I turn to see a tall, tan girl with a white-haired buzz cut walking toward us. It’s Kim, the one decent person from Saturday night’s party. When she catches sight of me, she snorts loudly.

  “Well, if it isn’t Sir Galahad.”

  She slides in next to me at the table and, without hesitation, takes a handful of my fries and shoves them in her mouth. Stella is looking between the two of us, surprised.

  “How do you know each other?”

  “We met at Evan’s party Saturday night,” Kim says through a mouthful of fries. “You know, the first night of spooky lightning.”

  “Oh.” Stella seems at a loss for words.

  “Anyway, came by here to give Janet her apron.” Kim leans over to lace up one of her black boots. “Left it at my place last time she was over. But you haven’t answered my question: What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m—I’m showing Galliard around. He said he hasn’t liked what he’s seen of the Outside.”

  “Yeah, I don’t blame him.” Kim sits up and faces me, her expression serious. “Don’t let those fuckers get to you, okay? They’re a bunch of meatheads. Or airheads. Either way, no functioning brain matter in there.”

  Stella’s looking between us again, her big eyes bigger. “Why? What happened?”

  “
Nothing,” I say, and funnily enough, my jaw-jerking tic starts up right then. Talk about comedic timing.

  “I heard Brian giving him shit about the Tourette’s,” says Kim. “You know, about what you’d expect from a guy with the IQ of a ferret.”

  Stella stares some more. She’s got to be remembering what I said earlier, about the Outside being depressing. Now she’s got to be thinking of me as some wounded, whining child.

  “Kim’s right,” she says. “They’re idiots, Galliard.”

  “Yeah, Stella makes a point of staying away from all of them. She hides at home and reads her science fiction.”

  Stella gives Kim a look. “It’s science. Not fiction.”

  “Yeah, okay. Sure. So where are you taking him next on this grand tour?”

  Stella fiddles with her malt straw. “I haven’t decided. This was the only place I had in mind.”

  “Wow. Okay.” Kim jabs my arm, and my jaw jerks. “You know Stell’s not the person to be showing you around, right? She’s basically a recluse.”

  Stella flinches. “Hey, he just had his first burger.”

  “Not saying that’s bad.” Kim raises her hands and addresses me again. “A party, a burger . . . you been to the Dreamlight yet?”

  On instinct I look to Stella. She’s smiling a little. I smile a little back.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ve been there.”

  I don’t mention that I never actually saw the movie.

  “You’re telling me you’ve been to all these places, but not the Exchange?” Kim shakes her head. “Whatever. Suit yourself, man.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I want to check it out. Music’s the one thing I like about the Outside.”

  Stella opens her mouth wide. “The one thing?”

  “And burgers,” I add. “And the malt. And the fries.”

  The sand reed and fireflies, too, only I’d feel like an ass saying that.

  Kim is snickering. “Oh my God. You cannot be real.” She juts a thumb out and says, “How about we do a brief listening session now? Give you the full drive-in experience. Sans back-seat sex.”

  Kim is already up and moving, so I don’t have time to think out the sex comment. Stella grabs both our trays and pitches the trash in a nearby bin, and we follow Kim to her car. She’s parked it in a drive-in slot that runs up against an open field and, beyond it, a flat expanse of corn. For the first time in days the clouds have parted, and the stars are visible. A faint sliver of moon shines down.

  Kim pats the hood of her bright green car and says, “You know anything about automobiles, Galliard?”

  I shake my head, which ends in my jaw jerking rightward.

  “Well, this is a ’71 AMC Gremlin. And it’s a piece of shit, but I love it. It’s why I work long hours. My point: Don’t put your feet on my dash.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” I say, but Kim’s already in the driver’s seat.

  “Come on,” she yells through her open window. “I don’t have all night.”

  I glance to Stella for guidance. She looks kind of amused, though maybe a little worried, too. Or maybe that’s just her eyes; it’s difficult to tell when they’re as big as hers.

  I open the passenger-side door and slide into the seat as Kim shouts, “Watch your feet! Watch ’em!”

  On the floorboard are a dozen small plastic boxes, scattered so as to make planting my feet impossible. I decide to stay absolutely safe by sticking my shoes out the open door, sitting sideways.

  “You getting in?” I ask Stella.

  She shakes her head, pointing behind me, and I turn to see that this AMC Gremlin has only two seats—no room for Stella. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. She moves in front of the car, to the concrete ridge where the drive-in ends and farmland begins, and she sits there, chin in hands, looking out into the dark.

  “All right,” says Kim. “1970, huh? You haven’t heard a thing after ’70?”

  “Right.”

  “My God,” Kim mutters, shaking her head and looking through a cardboard box in her lap, which contains even more of those plastic boxes—cassettes, I think they’re called; Archer has mentioned them before. “Okay, but you know Bowie, right? He was around before then.”

  I look blankly at her.

  “Shit, man, you don’t know Bowie?”

  “I guess we don’t have any of their LPs.”

  “His LPs,” Kim corrects. “It’s one person, David Bowie.”

  She pulls out a plastic box with the image of a redheaded man on the front, rainbow-colored lightning bolt painted across his face. The words Aladdin Sane are printed beneath his bare collarbone.

  “You’ve at least got to hear some Bowie.” She takes out a smaller plastic object from the box—the actual cassette, I guess. Then she fits it into a slot in the car dash and turns up a knob. The music blasts out, mid-song.

  Over a driving electric guitar, a man—this Bowie—sings about catching a trick on Sunset and Vine. Kim nods along, looking very serious. As I listen, I notice a thick, folded paper among the cassettes on the floorboard. I pick it up and turn it right side to make out the text:

  OKLAHOMA

  KANSAS

  Beneath the words is a drawing of a happy family of four riding in a red convertible along a country road. At the bottom is the scrawled message, Happy Motoring!

  Kim turns down the music and says, “You look like you’ve never seen a map.”

  I shake my head. “We learned geography in school. But they didn’t show us a map of Kansas.”

  Kim snorts. “It’s not that interesting, man. Though you should ask Stella about Hutchinson. God, she won’t shut up about that place. The way she talks, you’d think it was fucking NYC.”

  “Hutchinson?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  A lit cigarette hangs in Kim’s mouth; I’ve been so entranced by the map I didn’t even see her light up. She lets out of a puff of smoke in my direction, and I can’t help it—I cough.

  Kim turns the music up. She flicks her cigarette against the open window and says, “If it bothers you, you don’t have to stay in the car.”

  I don’t want it to bother me. For some reason, I don’t want to disappoint Kim. But the stench of the cigarette brings back my bad memories from Saturday night, and my jaw jerks, and I clear my unclearable throat.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, feeling flushed and ashamed. “I’m not used to smoke.”

  Kim shrugs, which seems to be her favorite thing other than snorting. I get out of the car and breathe in fresher air. Then I walk over to where Stella sits. Her head’s tilted to the sky, her eyes closed.

  “Can I sit here?” I ask.

  Her eyes flutter open, big and dark. She really does have the weirdest face.

  “Not a fan of Bowie?” she asks.

  “No, he’s fine.” I sit, though not too close. My chin is still jerking. “It was the smoke.”

  Stella glances back at the car. “Oh yeah. She kind of breathes the stuff. I forget that sometimes. She’s not allowed to on the job.”

  “What job?”

  “The Dreamlight. We work together every night. I mean, we went to school together, but the Dreamlight is how I know her.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or do you figure I know everyone in Slater?”

  “Kind of seems everyone here knows everyone.”

  She shoots out a breathy sort of laugh. “I’m not everyone.”

  “Kim says you’re a recluse.”

  “I guess that’s true. If you can live with two other people and go out every day for your job and still qualify as a recluse.”

  “You live with your parents?”

  We might not use that term in the commune, but the idea of kids living with just two adults while they’re growing up has always fascinated me.

  “My mom’s dead,” says Stella. “It’s my dad and my little sister. And it was Craig, too. Until he left.”

  Damn. Just when I hadn’t felt a guilty twinge for a full minute.
>
  My jaw keeps jerking. I clear my damn throat.

  “I have this memory,” Stella says. “It was a few years before Craig left, the ’72 Summer Olympics. Jill was tiny, and I was twelve, and the two of us were obsessed with the games. Craig scavenged Slater for boxes—big refrigerator ones—and he formed them into a podium in the backyard. He made medals for us out of paper clips and foil, and we played these made-up three-person games with his basketball and the badminton net. He did that. All of that. For us. Every night, for a week. Dad was our audience sometimes, but Craig was the mastermind. He made it special, for the family.” She pauses, looking thoughtful, her brow creasing. “It’s strange, because right after that was an awful time. There was the hostage situation, and the massacre, and it was all over the news. I felt so much older after that, like the spell of the whole summer was broken. But before the horrible things, there were our backyard games, and it’s my favorite memory of us, together.”

  I can’t be having this conversation. I can’t. I open my mouth, my only thought that I have to change the subject.

  Stella beats me to it, though, with a question. “Do you know who your parents are? I heard you don’t believe in them.”

  I almost collapse onto the concrete from relief.

  “We don’t,” I say, “but I know who they are. I work for J. J. in the kitchen. And Ruby taught me piano.”

  “You play piano?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that strange? Knowing who they are?”

  “I mean . . . I don’t know what would be strange about it. They are who they are.”

  “I guess if you grow up that way . . .” Stella looks to the sky again. She points. “Clouds are coming back in. It might storm again.”

  I look, and sure enough, a whole bunch of gray clouds are rolling quickly toward us, swallowing up the stars.

  “Covering the gods.” I say it softly, without thinking.

  Don’t be negative consequences, I think. Just be clouds.

  Stella’s quiet a long time, and I think she hasn’t heard until she asks, “What do you believe in there, exactly? You worship Zeus or something?”

  I smirk, shake my head. I could lie again, but I’ve already lied so much. For once it would be nice to be honest. Even if she thinks I’m crazy. Even if she never looks at me the same way again. I want to tell Stella something to her face that is true.