Maybe I’d take myself bowling once I got to Minnesota.
You can’t kill yourself. You have to run away.
67.
“Mom says you shouldn’t sleep all morning.”
Slam. Hannah made sure my door was firmly closed.
I laid my head back down on the pillow.
She opened the door again. “Did you know that I have to babysit? Mom told Mrs. Bentley I would do it without even asking me. And I’m sick.” She coughed.
Slam.
She opened the door a third time. “Oh, and happy birthday. You’re supposed to be a man now. That’s a load of crap if you ask me, but whatever.”
Slam.
The phone woke me an hour later.
“Happy birthday, Tyler.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Did Hannah get to the Bentleys’?”
“I guess so. She was pissed. Said she was sick.”
“She gets sick at the most convenient times. Sit!”
“I’m still in bed, Mom.”
Barking erupted on the other end of the phone. “Hold on,” Mom shouted. She said something to a human, yelled at the dogs, then walked away from the noise, or the noise was dragged away from her.
“Sorry about that,” she finally said.
“St. Bernard?”
“A German shepherd named Kezzie and two collies. It’s a blended family. They’re still dealing with some pack issues.”
“Why are you taking their picture?”
“For the owners’ wedding invitation.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. They’re trying to get veils on the collies right now. Get down, Kezzie, sit!”
Would she miss me?
That was a stupid question—of course she would. But it wouldn’t be too bad, not after the first week or so. She’d stay busy with work and vacuuming and taking care of Hannah. They’d take care of each other.
“Do you have any big plans for today?” she asked.
“That’s funny, Mom.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself won’t help,” she scolded. “It’s your birthday.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Dad’s in San Diego, but the three of us could go out to dinner to celebrate.”
“I’d rather stay in.”
“Hang on.” She set the phone down on something hard and called to somebody about the veils. There was more barking and the sound of an argument breaking out, then Mom picked back up. “Thank God I’m not shooting the wedding,” she muttered. “This place is a zoo.”
“I guess,” I said. “So, I’ll see you later.”
“Wait, Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget to bring in the garbage cans from the curb.”
My mother would be fine after I left. She’d pack up my room into brown cardboard boxes. She’d fold the flaps down, secure them with duct tape, and put the boxes in the basement. After a couple years, she’d forget where she put them. A couple years after that, she’d forget she ever had the boxes in the first place.
68.
Hey—
This is hard to write. Harder to say, so I’m writing.
Tell people I joined the Army
No, the navy. Since the idea started with a frozen lake, it should be the navy. That was what Mr. S. would call a motif, a nautical motif. Damn, I finally figured it out, and it was too late to do anything about it.
the Army Navy. Or I’m volunteering with disadvantaged kids in Africa or Masachusets. Whatever feels right. You have to stay here with them looking at you and talking about you. I don’t. I mean, I can’t. That’s why I’m leaving. But tell them what you want.
Two things: Give Yoda my computer. He can use it for parts. I don’t care who you give my clothes to. Please tell the custodial staff that I appreciated all they did. Tell Mr. Salvatore I said thanks, and tell Chip
Blame my DNA, a bad genetic twist. It’s not your fault. Not really. Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back.
I wasn’t sure how to end it: Your Son, Truly, Love, Sincerely, See ya…nothing fit. The whole letter sucked, pathetic words that didn’t come close to what I was trying to say. Plus I knew that “Massachusetts” was spelled wrong, but I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. My computer was still in custody, and I didn’t have the password to Hannah’s, which meant I’d have to look it up the old-fashioned way.
Why bother? What if the letter became public? What if some sleazy tabloid journalist snuck in and stole it and then it was splashed all over the papers? My family would have to live not only with the shame of a screwed-up son who couldn’t figure out how to make them happy, but with the knowledge that he was a terrible speller, too.
I hated to admit it, but Salvatore was right. There was no such thing as a great first draft.
It took a long time to find the dictionary in the basement. It was on the bottom shelf of Dad’s bookcase, buried under accounting journals and software manuals.
Hannah was standing in my room when I opened the door, holding my note in her hand.
“Ty?”
“Why are you home?” I asked.
She shook the paper. “Are you serious? You’re running away?”
“You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Where are you going?”
A horn beeped from the driveway.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Argh,” Hannah muttered. She went to the window and waved. “Mrs. Bentley. She offered me triple overtime to stay the rest of the day. I just came home to get my Bio book. Didn’t know you were going to ruin my life.”
“Leave me alone.” I tried to grab the note, but she kept it out of my reach.
“Leave you alone?”
“Don’t scream, Hannah.”
“Leave you alone?” Her voice pitched up another octave on the last word. The windows vibrated dangerously. “Are you nuts? No, don’t answer that.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She sat on the bed. “I don’t get it because I don’t live here. I don’t have the same parents as you, or go to your school. I’m not going out with your best friend. I don’t know anything about you.”
I handed her a tissue from the box on my desk, but she wiped her nose and eyes on my pillow.
“You don’t,” I said.
“Shut up,” she said.
“You don’t know anything!”
“Please don’t yell.”
“Don’t yell? Why not?” I yelled.
“You’re scaring me.” She sniffed and swallowed more tears. “How is running away going to help?”
I sat in my chair. “If they don’t arrest me, Dad’s sending me to military school. How’s that for options?”
Mrs. Bentley laid on her horn again.
Hannah threw the pillow, stalked across the room, and opened the window. “Hang on!” she screamed before slamming the window shut again. She turned to me. “I’m calling Mom.”
“No, don’t!”
“I’m supposed to go babysitting and let you ruin your life? Do I look that stupid?”
“Don’t call Mom. It will upset her.”
“You think?”
The horn sounded again, so long and loud I wondered if it had gotten stuck. It made the inside of my head wobble and my ears ring.
“I’m telling her I changed my mind,” Hannah said.
I grabbed her arm. “I won’t go,” I lied. “I’ll stay. For a couple days. We can talk, you and me, later.”
“You won’t go.”
“I won’t.”
“Calvin will be home soon.” She glanced at her watch. “He called me from the turnpike a little while ago. Will you go to his house?”
“Will it make you happy?”
“Of course it will, you idiot.”
“I’ll go.”
“You swear.”
“I swear,” I lied. “Now go before Mrs. Bentley has a fit.”
69.
Can’t think about Hannah. Won’t think about Hannah. Have to get out.
I ate a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and called the train station. The first stop would be Cleveland, then I’d take a 3:20 A.M. train to Chicago, change trains one more time, and pull into St. Paul at ten thirty the next night. From there I could catch a bus to northern Minnesota. I looked it up on a map. There were hundreds of little towns. I’d get a job in a bowling alley. Rent a room above a garage, buy a space heater. I could live on ramen noodles and hot dogs.
The trip would cost a little more than $170.00. Plus food. Plus I should have some extra to get by until I found a job. This was a problem. All my money went to pay for the Foul Deed. Under normal circumstances, Yoda would loan it to me, no questions, but Hannah was probably blabbing to him that very second, so that wouldn’t work.
I had to get out ASAP. If I waited, I’d be stuck. Every day would be a death of a thousand paper cuts that would close up overnight and bleed fresh the next morning. It didn’t matter if they arrested me. It didn’t matter where Dad sent me. If I didn’t get out, I was doomed.
I ate another sandwich. Where could I get the money?
Dad.
Before I went up to his room, I double-checked the entire house. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding somewhere, watching me. I went through the basement and the first floor, then climbed the stairs, walked the length of the hall, and slowly opened the door to his room, the master bedroom.
“Dad?”
Bed, dresser drawers, two doors—closet and bathroom. It smelled like aftershave and dust. His bed was made and the curtains were closed tight.
I walked to the bathroom. Inside was a white sink, a white toilet, and a white tub with a red plastic shower curtain crusted with dried soap scum. Prescription bottles filled with blood-pressure and cholesterol drugs were lined up like reserve soldiers on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, above the shaving cream, deodorant, and toothpaste.
One time I stood next to him in front of this sink, and he lathered his face until it looked like a Santa beard. Before he shaved, he lathered my face, too, and gave me an old toothbrush to use as my razor. We shaved together, that time when I was too short to reach the faucets.
I closed the door of the medicine cabinet a little hard. The shelves inside screeched and fell down.
A small wooden box with unused cuff links inside sat on top of Dad’s dresser, behind the bottle of aftershave and next to a large box of Kleenex. A business card from the law firm of Hewson, Heiligman, and Keehn lay in front of the aftershave. Damn lawyers were popping up everywhere. I stuck the card in my back pocket. Found my driver’s license in the cuff link box. Snagged that, too.
I tore through his drawers looking for money and whatever else was hidden under his creased briefs and long, limp socks. He had lots of socks. He also had a couple pairs of suspenders, two ancient copies of Playboy, short-sleeved white undershirts, stacks of folded sweaters, and an abandoned comb. No cash.
I did not open the bottom drawer. I knew what was in there. Given that my mind was fractured into a million pieces, I wasn’t going to tempt myself.
Go on. Get the money and run.
His closet was filled with clean, starched shirts bound together in groups of threes with twisty-ties and hermetically sealed in dry-cleaner bags. His suits, ten shades of black, were in dry-cleaner bags, too. I threw them on the bed to make more room in the closet. A couple slithered to the floor with plastic hisses.
He used to keep a stash of Clancy novels in here, but they were gone. I ran my hand along the top shelf, peeked in a shoe box of old photos, checked the pockets of a raincoat. No money. I stuck my hand in all of his shoes: loafers, scuffed dress shoes, unworn slippers, sneakers.
Jackpot. Ten fifty-dollar bills were rolled up in the toe of a left sneaker, top-quality Nikes, never worn. Four sizes too small for me. Damn.
I stuffed the bills in my pocket, headed for the door, then stopped.
No, I wasn’t going to open the bottom drawer. No, I wasn’t going to take it out, touch it, one last time. No, I wasn’t going to think about it.
I couldn’t help myself.
I pulled Grandpa’s sweater out of the drawer carefully, carrying it in two hands. Dad kept the gun unloaded, but you never knew. When you least expected it, that was when the bang happened. I set it on the bed and removed the four boxes of ammunition from the drawer. Dad had stocked up. Must have expected a prolonged siege.
I unfolded the sweater.
A nine-millimeter Beretta pistol, weapon of champions.
The smell drifted up: machine shop and gun oil and something else, like nails or charcoal.
I reached for it.
With the clip empty, the Beretta was muzzle-heavy and tipped forward. It was designed so that a full clip would balance it properly.
I opened a box of ammunition. You had to load the bullets into the clip by hand, ten of them. This was tricky. Bullets are sly, slippery. They glide through your fingers like a feather or a strand of girl’s hair, then they bounce on the carpet and hide.
I pushed the bullets, one by one, into the clip. They dropped, one by one, into place. When the clip was full, I slid it into the grip. I loaded a round into the chamber. The sound echoed off the mirror and ceiling.
With the clip locked and loaded, the gun was stabilized. It fit in my hand like a steel glove. I stood in my best cop pose, semi-crouch, on the balls of my feet, weapon gripped in a double fist. I pointed it, and bam! bam! pretended to shoot Dad right through the pillows.
That smell hit me again. What was it, exactly?
I brought the end of the muzzle close to my nose, sniffed. Bitter. It brushed my lips. I flinched. It smelled like a handful of coins and maybe Dad’s stench, him sitting on his bed holding this pistol, sweat trickling down his neck.
The tip of my tongue did a drive-by. The gun tasted like bicycle handles and earrings and cheap scotch. I wasn’t going to do it, I know, but it was here, in my hand, so easy, so close.
I wasn’t going to do it, but I couldn’t remember why.
I put my mouth around the end.
No.
I pulled back.
Me at the end of a rope in a dog collar, skating on a frozen pond, world watching from a shaky tree limb, waiting for me to fall through to the black water below.
The house was empty.
Yes.
I sat on the end of his bed, in front of the mirror. Looking back at me were rectangles intersecting rectangles intersecting rectangles—red walls, long drapes, padded headboard, burgundy pillows, beige bedspread. The pattern was ruined only by the black suits sprawled like broken wings, and my face.
I licked the barrel and closed my eyes.
I will pull this trigger and a bullet will rip through my skull at eight hundred miles an hour.
I will pull this trigger and my brains will detonate.
I will pull this trigger and fall.
No, not sitting, not sitting on his bed.
I stood up.
I stuck the gun deeper in my mouth, pointed up at the target. My hands shook, teeth chattering on the frozen barrel.
Homo, fuge.
I opened my eyes to watch it reach out for me. I wanted to see Death up close and personal. I wanted to shake His hand.
Homo, fuge.
I could see my legs from the knees up, my sweatshirt, my neck, chin, hand wrapped around the grip of the Beretta, but that was it. Dad had positioned the mirror on the wall for his height. I was too tall.
To watch myself die, I’d have to hunch over a little.
I was bigger than my father.
I pulled the gun out of my mouth. The barrel was wet. My teeth ached like I had been chewing on aluminum foil.
I didn’t fit.
I was a different size, a different shape. I kept trying to squeeze into a body, a skin suit, that was too small. It rubbed me the wrong way. I blistered. I callused. I scarred over and it ke
pt hurting. I would never fit.
But, really, I didn’t want to fit. That’s why it was hard.
I put the gun on the dresser next to the Kleenex box, muzzle pointing away from me.
My knees suddenly gave out and my stomach flipped. I staggered to the bathroom and puked my sandwiches into his toilet.
I flushed. Rinsed my mouth.
Stuck my head in the sink and ran cold water over it. My ears filled with water and then my brain, and my nose and mouth, but this was the opposite of drowning, this was coming out of the water back into the world.
I shut off the faucet and combed my hair with my fingers. The water ran down my face and neck and down my back, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was electric.
I grabbed the gun and the boxes of bullets before I left his room. I went down the hall and dug out my baseball bat, too.
70.
I’m not sure how I got to Yoda’s. Maybe I teleported. One second I was at my house, next second—poof!—I was at his, heavy backpack over my shoulder, bat in my hand, finger stabbing at the bell.
He opened the door wearing a Case Western shirt. He had a lollipop in his mouth.
I raised my hands. “Don’t say anything. Just listen.”
He moved the lollipop to the other cheek.
“You were right. I was a total asshole at the mall. I apologize. I’m sorry.” I slid the backpack off my shoulder and set it on the ground. “I’m having the worst day of my life. I know it’s lame to do this—apologizing, then asking for a favor—but I need a ride.”
He removed the lollipop. “Where are we going?”
The pitching machine released the ball—thunk. I swung—whiff. Another ball—thunk. Another swing—whiff.
“I thought the point of this was to actually hit the ball,” Yoda said.
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