by Alex Finlay
He cracked his neck as the plane taxied to the gate.
As he waited for the passengers to deplane, the usual jackasses had marched from the rear of the plane and stood in the aisle out of turn. He imagined for a moment his mother saying Rude! under her breath. After helping the old woman in the seat in front of him pull down her carry-on, Matt sauntered out.
Adair, Nebraska, was about an hour and a half’s drive from Omaha. His aunt had offered to pick him up, but he declined. Aunt Cindy meant well, but she was a bit much. It’d be expensive, but he’d take an Uber (they had Ubers in Nebraska, right?) and maybe Cindy could lend him his grandfather’s old station wagon.
At eight o’clock the Eppley Airfield terminal was quiet. It was a haze of fluorescent lights and tired-looking TSA workers. He followed the signs to ground transport, plodding past the kiosk for Omaha Steaks and down the escalator with the rest of the herd. Some familiar faces from the plane—the guy with the bad tattoos, the old lady he helped with the bag, the pretty young woman who kept stealing looks at him—were standing by the luggage turnstile. And then he saw it. The curly-haired man with bloodshot eyes. Matt ambled over to him.
“You look like shit,” Ganesh said after the two man-hugged.
“What are you doing here?”
“Your texts from Cancún were pathetic, so I thought you could use some company.”
He was right about that.
“You got a bag?” Ganesh said, looking at the luggage conveyer belt.
Matt shook his head. He’d left his duffel in Hank’s car on that rural road in Tulum.
“Then let’s get the fuck out of here.”
They proceeded to the parking garage, where Ganesh clicked the key fob on his rental. The lights on a massive Escalade flashed.
“Trying to blend in, I see.” Adair, Nebraska, wasn’t known for its luxury vehicles.
“What’s the problem? It’s American made.” The sum total of Ganesh’s understanding of rural America was from the movies. Matt had introduced him to a favorite, My Cousin Vinny, which was set in Alabama, but it was all the same to Ganesh.
The SUV smelled of cheap air freshener.
Soon they were heading out of the garage, through downtown Omaha and its tiny skyline, and onto the interstate, which turned to a dark highway and an expanse of flatland. They flew by errant farmhouses, stray windmills, and pretty much nothing else for miles.
“There’s so much space,” Ganesh said, scanning the emptiness. “In Mumbai there’s no land left. The only way to go is up.”
“Are the rural areas of India any better?”
“Haven’t seen much of the country, to be honest.”
Matt filled him in on his trip to Mexico. The bizarre encounter with Hank. The scare in the woods. The hostile Mexican cop. The imposing consular officer, Carlita Escobar.
“You, my friend,” Ganesh said, his Indian accent more prominent than usual, “had one fucked-up week.”
“You can say that again.”
“You, my friend, had one fucked-up week,” Ganesh said with a big grin.
It was another hour before the water tower for Adair appeared on the horizon. Ganesh said, “It’s like from the documentary.”
Matt recalled the opening credits from “A Violent Nature,” which included an aerial shot of the town. The voice on the GPS said to take the next exit, and Ganesh took it too fast, the Escalade nearly careening off the ramp.
“You’re going to kill me on the way to a funeral,” Matt said.
As they made their way into town, Matt didn’t look out the window. He didn’t want to face the memories or the nostalgia or whatever would flood through him at the sight of his childhood hometown. He just closed his eyes and waited for Ganesh to take them to the Adair Motel.
The establishment’s name fit the town: no frills, straightforward, matter-of-fact. It was one of the few places that wasn’t named after the proprietor who’d started the business. Places like Parker’s Grocery, Sullivan’s Ice Cream, Anne’s Diner, and so on. Matt supposed no one wanted their legacy to be a low-end motel.
It wasn’t long before the vehicle came to a stop.
Matt opened his eyes, gazed out the window. “What are you doing?” he said. They were parked in the gravel lot of Pipe Layers, Adair’s only bar. Before Charlotte’s murder, Matt’s parents would go there once in a while, usually for a friend’s birthday or a fundraiser for the football team. On a Friday night, the lot was full, the place still the only game in town.
“You look like you could use a drink,” Ganesh said.
“I could use a shower.”
“Come on, just one.”
It was never just one with Ganesh. But Matt liked the company, and the Adair Motel wasn’t exactly the Four Seasons.
“One,” Matt said.
“Sure, sure, sure,” Ganesh said. “I can add this to my list of bars.”
Some people wanted to visit each of the fifty states, some to camp at every national park, some to dine at every Michelin-starred restaurant. But Ganesh strived to have a drink at the weirdest bars in the world. He bragged that he’d been to a bar made completely of ice in Sweden, a bar shaped like a casket in Ukraine, a bar in the trunk of a six-thousand-year-old tree in South Africa, a vampire bar in Tokyo, a bar decorated entirely with women’s undergarments in Florence, and the list went on. He was about to be sorely disappointed.
Pipe Layers looked like Hollywood’s idea of a small-town tavern. It had a long, over-varnished bar with several locals drooping on stools, staring at themselves in the tarnished mirror: weathered farmers, line-workers from the irrigation plant, some saggy-faced old-timers, a barfly. But at the high-top tables and booths, the crowd was younger. Stylish couples—carpetbaggers who worked in white-collar jobs at Adair Irrigation—and casually dressed men and women in their twenties, playing darts and pool.
All of them seemed to stop and stare when Matt entered the establishment. It reminded him of Mexico when the jungle went suddenly quiet: creatures going still from the presence of something that didn’t belong. A threat. The silence lasted only a beat, and the din of the bar returned.
“I have a surprise for you,” Ganesh said.
Matt narrowed his eyes.
From the back of the place came a procession of familiar faces. Kala led the group, looking glamorous as always. Next, Woo-jin towering over her, followed by Sofia in her green military jacket. Curtis, probably the only black guy in the entire bar, was last in line. An inconspicuous group they were not. Ganesh had mobilized the Island of Misfit Toys from Rubin Hall. And they’d dropped everything to be here for Matt. He tried to contain the emotion swelling his chest.
“You didn’t need to come,” Matt said as he hugged Kala, then Sofia. He bumped fists with Woo-jin, who wasn’t one for hugs, and pulled Curtis into a shoulder embrace.
The group convened at two tall high-top tables. Ganesh and Woo-jin headed to the bar to get some pitchers.
As usual, all male eyes were on Kala. She was used to it, Matt supposed. The subtle and not so subtle glances, leering from older men who knew better.
“Look, an old jukebox,” Sofia said. She grabbed Kala by the arm. “We’ll be right back.”
The girls walked confidently through the crowd and leaned over the smudged glass of the jukebox, pointing and giggling. The crunchy opening riff to “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC soon filled the bar. Matt got a lump in his throat listening to one of his father’s favorite bands.
“You okay?” Curtis asked.
“It’s surreal. Being back here.” He looked over at the jukebox again. Two men were talking with the girls. Sofia laughed at something one of them said. Kala paid them no mind, her standard MO.
“When did you all get here?” Matt said. “I mean, how’d you beat me here?”
“Ganesh sent a group text this morning,” Curtis said. “He’d bought everyone tickets and booked a block of rooms.”
Some say the rich are different. In many ways Ganesh wa
s not. He was actually pretty normal by NYU standards: a bright kid living in a crappy apartment, who spent a lot of time smoking weed and trying to hook up with girls. But he was different. Beyond his eccentricities, Ganesh was uncompromising. A concert they all wanted to see sold out? He’d hire the musician to play at a private party. His friends couldn’t afford spring break? He’d charter a plane and rent a beach house. Hamilton tickets? Easy. Reservations at the Polo Bar? No problem. Ganesh didn’t care about material things. He valued experiences and friendship. Money was always available, an afterthought, a means to an end. The rich were indeed different.
Curtis pondered Matt at length. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you want to talk, want to get out of here, we can—”
“No,” Matt said. “Seeing you, having us all together like normal, it’s exactly what I needed.”
The girls found their way back. “Where the fuck are those drinks?” Kala said. She looked over to the bar.
“Were those guys bothering you?” Matt asked.
“We live in New York. I think we’ll be fine, Dad,” she replied.
Matt smiled. He preferred edge to pity any day of the week.
Laughing, Sofia said, “Their names were Stormy and Lightning. They told me their brother’s name is Thunder. I shit you not.”
Ganesh and Woo-jin finally arrived, each carrying a pitcher. Woo-jin also held a glass of water for Curtis.
And it wasn’t long before Sofia was nattering on about politics and the latest Twitter outrage, the guys talking sports, and, of course, Matt and Kala launching into a fierce debate about the best film directors. It was like they were at Purple Haze on a typical Friday night.
“M. Night Shyamalan doesn’t hold a candle to Jordan Peele,” Kala said.
Matt grunted. “I’ll give you that Peele revitalized the horror genre. Made it smart, weaving in social commentary. But I’ve got three words for you: The Sixth Sense.”
“I’ve got three for you: The Last Airbender. Horrible. And Peele doesn’t arrogantly give himself cameos in his own films.”
“It’s just fashionable to hate on M. Night.”
“You saying my views are just fashionable?” Kala held his stare as she took a gulp of beer. Her pretty eyes twinkled when she was angry.
“Yo, lighten up,” Ganesh said. “I want this stupid debate settled by the time I get back with another round.” He headed to the bar.
Kala seemed to realize she was, well, being Kala. Matt could’ve hugged her for it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve—”
He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “If your views are ever fashionable, it’s because you started the fashion.”
Her eyes glistened as if she was going to say something about his family, something that was going to make them both cry. But she shook it off, realizing it was the last thing she should do.
“I just don’t get how you can like Shyamalan so much.”
Matt smiled again. She had a point, since most of the NYU film school snobs looked down on M. Night Shyamalan. But Matt loved Shyamalan’s movies because they were grounded in destiny—the protagonists unaware that everything in their lives had led up to a moment; that everything suddenly made sense; that they had a purpose in the universe.
Matt’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the bar. He didn’t have a clear line of sight, but he saw the mop of curly hair bobbing around, and he knew.
“Shit,” he said, jumping from the stool and threading through the crowd. At the bar, he found Ganesh in a stare-down with three young men. Other patrons had stepped back, sensing trouble.
Matt put a hand on Ganesh’s shoulder, not acknowledging the other men. “Hey, what’s up?”
Ganesh’s jaw was jutted, hands balled into fists. Woo-jin and Curtis suddenly materialized next to Matt.
“Let’s go sit down,” Curtis said. “It’s not worth it.”
Eyeing Matt and his friends, one of the locals—he had cropped hair with a C-shaped scar on the side of his skull—said loudly to his own friends, “You hear the one about the black, the Chinaman, and the terrorist who walked into a bar?”
The three men burst into laughter.
Kala sidled up to Matt, whispered in his ear, “Ignore them.”
He should listen to her, he knew. But instead Matt said, “Korean.” He held the guy’s stare.
“What?”
“He’s from Korea, not China,” Matt said, looking up at Woo-jin.
The man pushed closer to Matt, his shoulders thrown back.
Woo-jin tried to defuse the situation. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said.
The man repeated the words in a mock Asian accent. “Oh, you no want no trouble. You love him long time.”
More laughter.
“Why don’t you and I go outside?” Ganesh said, nudging his way in front of Matt. “Or are you too scared to go without Semen Breath and Muffin Top?” Ganesh looked at the two men flanking the leader. It was a line from the movie The Judge. Matt knew because they’d watched it together, but the men were clueless.
The heavier man Ganesh had called Muffin Top hitched up his pants.
“Nobody asked you, Osama bin Fuckface,” the leader said.
Matt grabbed Ganesh just in time, holding him back from jumping on the guy.
The man’s legs were spread, a fighting stance. His friends seemed less enthusiastic.
That was when Matt realized that he recognized them, the friends. He looked at Semen Breath. “It’s been a long time, Steve. How’s your sister doing?”
Steven Ellison’s eyes immediately hit the floor. They’d been in Cub Scouts together. Gone on camping trips. Had playdates. Steve’s older sister had a severe disability and was in a wheelchair, unable even to feed herself.
“She’s good,” Steve said, his eyes sheepishly lifting to Matt’s.
“And, Nate, you still playing baseball?” The man Ganesh had called Muffin Top had been the star of their Little League team.
Nate, too, looked down, embarrassed.
But the leader, he was familiar, though Matt couldn’t quite place him, said, “You pussies can get all nostalgic, but this motherfucker”—he poked a finger in Matt’s chest—“thinks he and those Jew filmmakers can drag us all through the mud, and then just show up in our bar like nothing’s happened.”
“I had no part in the documentary,” Matt said.
“The fuck you and your shit family didn’t.”
Now Matt felt his blood turn hot. The rage he’d worked so hard to bury all these years coming to the surface again. “Say one more thing about my family, and Steve and Nate are gonna have to carry you out of here.” Matt meant it.
The crowd that had formed around them parted, and a blur of dark hair whooshed by. It was a young woman. She walked right up to the leader and put herself between the man and Matt.
“Ricky, what the hell are you doing? I’m gonna tell Mom that you’re—” She stopped, spun around, and stared intensely at Matt and his friends. “If you put one finger on him, you’ll be charged with murder. He’s got a plate in his head. One tap could kill him.” She looked at Matt.
“You should know better.”
Matt couldn’t believe it. After all the years thinking about that night at the Knoll—his electrifying first kiss—and it was her. Jessica Wheeler. As Matt stood staring, the crowd dispersed. Jessica shepherded Ricky, Steve, and Nate back to their table, wagging her finger at them. In just a few seconds, she’d ended the standoff. Shamed them all.
Back at their table, Matt watched Jessica as she continued to scold the three, then led her brother to a back office. She must work at the place. Matt had a vague recollection of Ricky Wheeler now. Ricky had been on the football team with Danny, but they hadn’t been close friends. Ricky looked much different these days. Not just older and heavier; there was a slackness in his face. The slurred speech Matt had attributed to drinking too much might be from a brain injury. Matt watched
the door to the office, waiting for Jessica to come back out.
“Hell-o,” Kala said, snapping her fingers in front of Matt’s face.
Matt was about to explain when his cell phone chimed. Agent Keller’s number. He swiped the device.
“Matt, it’s Sarah Keller.” She said something else he couldn’t make out. The connection was fuzzy, and the bar was loud again.
“I’m having a hard time hearing you. Hold on one second.” Matt plugged an ear with his finger and pushed through the crowd.
“Can you hear me?” Keller asked.
Matt stepped outside the bar. He made his way past two men smoking near the front door, and to the parking lot, which was lit by a single streetlight. It was good to be out of the stale air of the bar. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“No worries. I heard you had some problems in Mexico,” Keller said.
“You can say that.”
“Carlita Escobar said you had a run-in with the local police. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a long-ass day.”
“I can imagine.” She paused. “I hoped we could catch up tomorrow. You have time to meet?”
“Yeah, but I’m not in New York. I changed my flight and came to Nebraska.”
“I know, so did I. Could we meet in the morning? I saw a diner on the main road, so maybe we could get some breakfast?”
“Sure, but I don’t understand why you came all the way here to—”
“I’ll fill you in on everything tomorrow. But right now I have a question for you, and it’s not something I want to ask.”
Matt waited.
“We’d like to conduct autopsies.”
“Autopsies?” Matt processed this. “I thought—the gas leak—the Mexican cop said they closed their investigation. I don’t under—”
“I promise you, Matt, I’ll explain everything tomorrow, but I have to tell the Lincoln field office if they need to have someone available.”
