Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  "Fears not always irrational, Caleb. It's there for a reason. What else are you afraid of?"

  "Even if nothing happens to them, I... I'm afraid of what'll happen between my parents."

  "You're afraid your mother will leave him?"

  A sigh rises up from deep in my chest, like steam rising from a hot kettle. There's pressure inside of me—in my chest, in my guts, even in the muscles in my face and forehead. Something's gonna blow sooner or later. I nod in reply. I'm afraid that she'll leave him. "Lately, there's this weird vibe in the air. I felt it ever since we came here. At first, I thought it was just the jitters—being new. But there's this weird...tension...between them. And as much as I try to pretend otherwise, I think she knows. She knows what he is...what he's done... what he keeps doing."

  "And what happens then?" He leans forward, folding his hands in his lap. Sympathy spreads across his typically stoic face.

  "Don't know really. I've never really thought about it before. I guess I go with Mom, but then I'm starting over again. New school. New town. And I never really get to stop being the new kid. I never get to stop feeling this way."

  He smiles. He seldom smiles. "Do you know what's strange?"

  "Lot of things, really. This whole town's strange if ya ask me."

  "I think it's strange that you're so worried about disappointing your father, but he's the one who's disappointed you."

  "Yeah. That's right, Doctor. He has."

  From the living room, the squawk of the cuckoo clock carries up the stairs, rousing me from my daydream. A moment later the church's organ hums across the parking lot. The morning worship service is starting and I'm still in my underwear. If I throw on some clothes and run out the door right now, I can still make it. But I don't think I'm gonna do that. If missing church is the most disappointing thing that I do this week, I'm gonna be alright.

  When I look at the clock, it's 12:30, but there's still not any sound from downstairs. It's not unusual for Dad to still be at the church, making small talk with stragglers. Mom's usually back by 12:15, so she can start lunch.

  I wrestle my legs through a pair of jeans, peel on a T-shirt, and stumble down the stairs. The lights are off and the stove is cold.

  I peek out the window to find Mom's Oldsmobile gone. The parking lot is mostly empty, save for a few stragglers and Dad's at the top of the stairs, chatting with Brother Carroll. Mom's nowhere in sight. And, snap! My fears back, threatening to rip my lungs out.

  I mean she can't just leave—without saying 'good-bye'. If it ever came down to it, and she did leave, I always thought she'd take me with her. She can't just leave me with him.

  I tear up the stairs and fling open the door to their bedroom. Everything's still there. Her jewelry box. Her perfume. The ceramic doll that belonged to Grandma. She wouldn't leave without the doll.

  The kitchen door squeaks open below. "Caleb?" Dad's voice calls through the house.

  "Yeah?"

  When I get to the top of the stairs, Dad comes around the corner, glances up at me. "I see you weren't at church." But he's all nonchalant and there's not even a hint of lingering disappointment on his face.

  "I...uh...overslept."

  "Well, you probably needed the rest anyway. Your mom's been worried about you not sleeping well."

  "Uh...where is she?"

  "She's making some runs over in town." He turns and steps back into the kitchen. "We're on our own for lunch."

  "Dad?" I call down to him.

  "Right here, son. Come down here if ya wanna talk to me."

  I stomp down the stairs and lean against the doorway. "Dad, nothing's open on Sunday."

  "Not here. She drove over to Ferry's Port." He opens the refrigerator and grabs a package of lunch meat. A jar of Mayonnaise.

  "Oh...Ferry's Port?"

  He turns around and sets the lunch meat on the counter, grabs a loaf of bread from the cupboard. "You wanna sandwich?"

  "No, I'm... not hungry."

  "Suit yourself," he says, as he unwinds the wire bread tie. "Look, Caleb. You and your mom are a lot alike. You're like a couple of soda pops, you two." He lets out a chuckle and makes this gesture with his hand like he's shaking a bottle of soda. "You get all worked up and ya gotta wait for things to settle down. Ya know?"

  I snort out a half-laugh-half-scoff. "Why? Why do you always do that?"

  "Do what?" The innocent look and the confusion on his face are not part of an act. He really doesn't get it. He takes two slices of white bread and sets them on the counter.

  "Whenever someone gets upset with you, you act like it's some sort of an emotional instability on their part."

  "Well... it is." He kind of sings on the word 'is'. "I mean you're the one who's upset. I'm not upset."

  "Well, maybe you should be."

  Tires roll in the drive way. I hear the sound of Mom setting the brake. Dad glances out the window and rolls his eyes. "Ya know, Caleb... Uh, why don't you take a walk, or... pay a visit to that Luke kid."

  My eyes narrow and my nostrils widen. "Why?"

  He nods quickly, like he's mulling over a complex question. "Uh, soda pop, Caleb. Sometimes, things blow up."

  "Unbelievable!" I slam my fist against the wall and stomp across the living room. Just as Mom comes in the back door, I step out on the front porch. But I don't go far. Whatever's about to blow up effects me too. So, I just lean against the door jamb with my ear cocked toward the cracked door.

  No talking. Her shoes click across the kitchen tile.

  "Shouldn't we talk about this?" Dad asks her.

  Her footsteps stop. Silence.

  "Well?"

  "What. the fuck. do we. have to talk about?"

  There's the sound of my jaw hitting the porch. I'm not so sheltered as to believe that there aren't any mothers out there that talk like that. Josh's mom can weave together a quilt of profanity so grotesque and shocking that it's almost poetic, but this is my mom. Cut her some slack about being the preacher's wife. She's the only person outside of the Cleaver family that still uses words like 'golly' and 'gee whiz'. I didn't know her mouth was capable of articulating words like the big F.

  "Hey, now. I'm just as shocked about this as you are."

  "NO!" Her voice rattles the windows. "Don't you.. Stand there. And play innocent. This is on you, Lee. It's on you!"

  "What? You think you lift right out of this? This is on us, Dear. Both of us. Your name's on those accounts too."

  "I..." Her voice becomes strained with tears. "had no idea...what I was...signing." Sobs.

  "Jesus, Dad. Go to her," I mutter to myself, even though I really want to scream. "Quit being an asshole and apologize for once in your life."

  "You had no idea?" Dad's voice raises an octave and takes on a preachy tone. "You think that washes? No! I go down. You go down."

  "I can't do it, Lee." Her voice is barely audible now. "You've gotta fix this... now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now. Otherwise, I take Caleb and we go. Got it?"

  "I'll see what I can do," he says, but there's a flustered and put off tenor to his voice, as if Mom's the one who's being unreasonable.

  I grab the railing and nearly fall down the porch steps into the lawn. My guts cramp. I heave. I hack. And it feels like a giant lizard crawling up my throat, as last night's dinner sprays through my lips.

  Chapter 28

  Monday, September 27 The final bell rings and the hallways erupt with end-of-day mayhem—everyone trying to make an exit at the same time. My mind's a mile ahead of me—walking into Broad Strokes, finding a spot to sit, where Lindsey's in eye contact with me. When Josh finishes his sides, we can all climb up to the Josh Escape and pretend that the little town below us is really sleeping. It's that snow globe version of reality that I really want right now. Beautiful views. Wonderful stories. I don't wanna go home and just sit there waiting for things to boil over. The cafeteria looks like someone turned over a log—and bugs went scampering in every direction. But near the rear doors, Lind
sey's about to slip outside. “Linds..” I stop myself from shouting to her, because I don't want to be that guy. I don't want to be some sniveling, pathetic little dude, following her around like a puppy dog. But I want her to notice me. Maybe she'll ask me to walk to Broad Strokes with her, or maybe she'll have her dad's truck again and we can take the scenic route. I pick up my pace and snake my way through the crowd. But then—as if he had planned the whole thing—Grant comes strutting through the rear doors and stops directly in front of her. And you seldom find a star without his entourage—Troy and Danny are to either side of him. Lindsey stops in her tracks—doesn't even give him so much as a glance. She bobs to the right to go around him, but he snatches her around her waist with one arm. He pulls her into his arms. She wriggles to free herself from him, but he has her in a tight hold. He says something to her, but the hallway's too noisy to hear him. With his left arm, he hugs her tightly to his chest. His right hand slights lower, sliding across her butt. His hand pauses there and then he squeezes—like he's pinching a loaf of bread. Something clicks off in my head and the cafeteria appears in lizard vision. My chest pounds with my heart's violent drum beat and all I can see is a hideous creature laughing at Lindsey with a stupid ape face. His bubbling ape friends hop about to either side of him, ready to fling fresh shit at her. She screams—pain as well as outrage. It's not a gentle hold that he has on her backside. "GET OFF ME!" She screams and everyone gets quiet. Hundreds of eyes fall upon her, but no one says a thing—no one steps forward to help her. She wriggles and pushes with her arms, and pops free. She lunges forward, pounces on the door, and hurries outside. It's not like she's my girlfriend or anything, but she's not his girlfriend either. And even if she was, he still has no right to handle her like that. The door falls shut behind Grant. He lets out a chortle, then raises his right hand to his face. He makes a curious expression and sniffs at his fingers. Shakes his head. This time I hear him: “smells like herpes.” There's a dozen and one things wrong with his comment, but his goons laugh anyway. I'm almost to the doors before I even realize it, but, like a dog that smells fresh meat, Grant rares up his head. His eyes lock with mine. An expression falls across his face as if he's just put two and two together. He glances at the door where Lindsey had just exited and then turns back to me. Shakes his head. I make a bee-line toward the door, but he sees where I'm headed. And blocking the path of an opposing player is the one thing he's good at. I duck and bob to the right, but he slides over and sinks his meat hooks into the collar of my shirt. Like he's tossing midgets at the circus, he gives me a fling. My shirt rips at the collar and then—THUD! My breath is knocked out of me with a loud cough, as my back slams against the brick wall. He's right in front of me breathing his stinky breath in my face. A taunting glint shines in his eyes, like he's playing games with a dog—trying to get a response out of me. "Might wanna be careful, Calloway. It's not gonna look good if the preacher’s kid gets an STD." A vile rants of insults burns inside me—like Dad said, I'm a shaken soda pop, waiting to explode. And that's what I want to do—go off on him. Find the most horrible moment of his life and make him live it all over again. Hold him down and rub his nose in dog shit. But it's all bottled up inside of me. The words that I want to say can't quite find their way to the tip of my tongue. So, I just stand there. Silent. Stupid. He steps back, lets out a little huff, and sneers at me. He stares at me, practically daring me to move—daring me to say something to him that he can correct with his fist. A hollow chuckle spills out his mouth and I just stand there—frozen in place. Smug satisfaction spreads across his face. He nods. If this was a rodeo, he'd dust off his hands on his jeans about now. His work is done. He turns and, as if Fonzie had snapped his fingers, his whole posse marches out the doors. I'm slumped against the wall in a stunned stupor for longer than I care to be. Students trail by and the doors open and shut behind me. What feels like hours later, a shadow stops in front of me. A familiar scent—cigarette smoke drowned with cologne—drifts to my nose. “Hey, man. What's with you?” My eyes remained fixed on the floor, as Josh comes closer. "Grant...” “What did he do?” “Grabbed Lindsey's ass... Called her 'herpes'. Shit like that. And, then... uh, he slammed me against the wall.” I raise my head and he's just staring at me with this look of anger and surprise. But it's different than just being pissed off. His arms are out at his sides, his chest puffs out, and his eyes narrow. “What?” My voice squeaks. He shakes his head in disbelief. “You're just gonna take that?" I'm confused. He's supposed to be on my side, right? “Josh... it's Grant.” He shakes his at me and walks away. “Where ya going, man?” Chapter 29

  Charcoal clouds hang in the sky as tiny pellets of drizzle blow in the wind. The football field is wet and muddy, but it's business as usual. Some of the players are already on the field, wearing their pads, and scrimmage jerseys. They're doing their warm-up exercises and running drills.

  Grant's nowhere in sight and all of the coaches are still inside. As I linger by the entrance to the stadium, the grand poo bah finally shows his face, strutting along the sideline. Troy casts a glance in my direction, but Grant doesn't acknowledge me. I just stand there, leaning against the fence.

  “What the hell are ya doing?” I mutter to myself. “Forget Grant, for get all of these shit-swarming flies.”

  It occurs to me that I'm better off crawling home to Mom and Dad—telling them I think Home School, Church School, or whatever they want to call it is a good idea. I can just go through the motions, biding my time until I can finally get the hell out of here.

  Staggering back toward the curb, an image of Jimmy rattles my mind. It's like it's all replaying before my eyes in some sort of game review film. Grant has Jimmy against the wall—the way that he gets everyone against the wall. His fist clenched and ready to hit him. And Jimmy curls up in a ball—just like he curled up in the Cougar's cage. And Grant just stands there, taunting the case of “the disappearing shit stain”.

  Pop! A jolt of something primal shoots through my body—something so sudden and violent that I'm not sure what to do with myself. My eyes zero on grant—in the middle of the field, strutting like he's king. He's the only thing I see; everything else goes dark around the edges.

  The fence rattles as I hurl myself over it, landing in a crouch. Every muscle in my body tenses at once. Sort of tribal urge overtakes me—guides me. My body pounces forward, like a horse breaking out of his starting gate. The grass passes beneath me in a blur. My speed increases as I cross the track and barrel out onto the field. Grant appears in the center of my vision—walking away from me, but in the corner of my vision Troy points at me. He shouts something, but the only sound I hear is this hideous animal noise screaming from somewhere inside me.

  Confusion and panic play in Grant's eyes, as he shifts and starts to turn around. He's too late. I swoop low, hurling myself forward. BAM! My shoulder catches him right behind the knees. He goes tumbling above me as my feed slide from under me.

  Get up! Get up! Get up! Get up! Dad's proverbial soda pop just blew and there's no turning back now. Have to get to my feet before Grant gets to his. My fingers claw and my feet dig into the muddy field. Push. Slip. Claw. Climb. Until my feet are under me. And I circle around—covered in mud. My arms flail out at my sides and my crouched stance makes me feel like a caveman. In the corner of my vision, shadows appear—players running toward me—but Grant's on his back—gasping like his wind's been knocked out of him. His helmet sinks in the mud beside him.

  I fall forward, straddling his torso with my knees. My fingers grasp for the grid iron of his helmet. The shadow of one of his goons towers above me, but it's too late. I sling the helmet toward his face. And just as I feel the weight of someone pouncing on me, I hear a satisfying THUD!

  A pair of arms wraps about my chest and holds me down. A handful of goons hover by Grant. The rest huddle in the background, making a tight circle.

  “It's over.” Scoot hangs onto me—almost smiling. “Take it easy. It's over... It's over.”
/>
  “Oh, that was beautiful,” Josh practically sings, as he hunkers down by Scoot.

  “You saw?”

  “All of it. The charge. The tackle. Everything. Beautiful, man. Just beautiful!”

  Chapter 30

  Saturday, October 2

  The clearing's as lonely as a drunken bum, dying beneath a rusting bridge, due to complications of alcoholism and the failures of a miserable life. No one's here but me and Josh, not even the occasional jay or a circling buzzard. With it being so empty, you really tend to notice the beer cans, the candy wrappers, the discarded condoms. This isn't the kind of place where hippies come to commune with nature; it's the kind of place where the army sets up camp after the apocalypse. It's where drunken hillbillies come to wrestle in the dirt and claim the virginity of whoring school girls, like antlers from their hunting trips.

  “So, what d'ya think?” Josh has the nerve to ask me. I mean I'm grateful that he thought to bring me along and everything, but this trip just barely beats a game of Boggle with my parents.

  “I think you've gone and bumped your head. Seriously, why the hell did you bring me here?”

  He shrugs, turning his attention to his motorcycle, carefully covering it with leaves, pieces of brush, and weeds. “To get even.” He unfastens a green backpack from the rear rack and tosses it out into the clearing.

  “With me?”

  “No, not with you. With them.”

  “Who? Josh, there's no one here.”

  With his motorcycle mostly hidden, he turns around to face me, leaning back against the seat. “Oh, we're early. The good ole boys won't be here for a while.”

  “Well, that's just great! Why are we so damn early?”

  “Jesus, Caleb! Ya need a Midol or something? Look, We're not exactly going to the party.”

  “Well,what the hell are we doing here?”