by Jason Mott
“Why?” I ask The Shape. “Why do you wish that boy were here?”
But The Shape doesn’t answer. He only offers a solemn wave goodbye and does not look back as he walks off into the cornfield that is dancing beneath the eternal Carolina night.
The figures in the cornfield watch him enter. It is as though they have been waiting for him, patient as a river.
Soon The Shape is gone.
Soon the figures are gone.
Soon there is only me, and me, and the lonely night.
I don’t think he’s well,” Soot’s mother said. The two of them sat side by side on a small couch in the psychiatrist’s office, buried in the sound of ocean waves pumped out of a small CD player in the far corner. Posted around the room were various positive affirmations about inner strength and human resilience and the individual’s responsibility to not be controlled by their past. Soot wasn’t sure he believed any of it, but he tried to give it the benefit of the doubt.
“What do you think is wrong with him?” the psychiatrist asked. She was a thin, dark-haired woman who smiled whenever she looked at Soot. She gave him the same smile most people did now that his father was dead. It was a smile that tried to convey a message of sadness and empathy, but there was always an undercurrent of joy as well. It takes the misfortune of others to remind us of our own blessings.
Soot’s life had become a walking reminder of other people’s blessings.
“He sees things,” Soot’s mother said. Then she took Soot’s hand and smiled at him. An apology danced in her eyes. “Lots of different things,” she continued, turning back to the psychiatrist. “Animals, strange colors, all sorts of things. But, mostly, he sees his father.”
The psychiatrist wrote something down on her notepad.
“He knows that his father’s gone,” Soot’s mother continued. “We’ve talked about that. So it’s not like he thinks his father’s alive.”
“He saw it happen, correct?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Yes,” Soot’s mother replied. Her body tensed for a moment, then relaxed again. “But he says that he’s doing things with his father. He told people at school that he and his father went fishing the other weekend.” Her hands wrestled with one another in her lap. “He’s always had an imagination, and we always encouraged that. But this is something different. He believes it. He really believes it. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The psychiatrist held up her hand. “Well, hold on a minute,” she said. “Let me talk to him and find out what he really believes and what he doesn’t. Okay?”
Soot’s mother nodded. “Should I leave?”
“If you don’t mind. It would make talking to him a little bit easier.”
“Okay,” Soot’s mother said. Then she rubbed his back and kissed him gently on the forehead—her perfume smelling of vanilla and lavender. “I’ll be right outside,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Soot replied.
When she was gone the psychiatrist put away her notebook and threw Soot another warm smile. “Let’s sit on the floor,” she said. “I find that I always feel a little better when I’m sitting on the floor.”
“Okay,” Soot said.
The two of them settled onto a pair of beanbags and Soot couldn’t help but wonder how many other kids’ mothers had brought them there and left them seated on these beanbags with this woman. “So your mother says you’re seeing things,” she began. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” Soot replied. He scratched the back of his hand to keep his mind off of the questions and to avoid looking at the tree that was growing in the corner of the psychiatrist’s office. It was pitch-black with blazing white flowers and it had not been there when he came into the office. It had only sprung up in the corner a few moments ago but, already, it was two feet tall and its branches wove themselves into the flowered wallpaper, sprouting new white blossoms by the second.
“Do you see your father?”
“Sometimes,” Soot said. In the corner, the sable tree continued to grow. Its branches consumed the corner of the office. Its flowers burst like stars.
“And what happens when you see your father?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he talk to you?”
Soot smiled. “Why wouldn’t he?”
The psychiatrist smiled back. “What does he talk about?”
“Just different things,” Soot said.
“Does he ever ask you to do things?”
“Sometimes.”
On the far wall behind the psychiatrist, the tree had sprouted tall and long. Its branches and flowers covered the wall and made their way onto the ceiling. Its roots dug through the carpeted floor, and broke into the concrete, and burrowed into the firm, black earth beneath it all. The branches broke the drywall and wrapped themselves around the core of the room, splitting two-by-fours and breaking windows. The tree’s canopy, black and shimmering, melted across the ceiling and burst through and opened up the small, stuffy office to sunlight that fell through in a great, glowing swath of brilliance and warmth.
Soot smiled.
“What kind of things does he ask you to do?” the psychiatrist asked.
“He tells me to take care of myself,” Soot said. Across the room the tree swayed back and forth like a song sung to a child. “He tells me not to be scared.”
“Not to be scared of what?”
“I don’t know,” Soot replied. He struggled to keep his hands calm. More than anything he wanted to run across the room and climb that tree and have it take him away from the psychiatrist and all of her questions about his dead father. Where that tree could take him, his father would not be dead.
“You do know that your father is dead, don’t you?” The psychiatrist asked the question as softly as she could, like handling something precious, and fragile, and destined to be broken at some point. But, more than anything, she wanted to keep it from being broken in her hands.
“I know,” Soot said.
“And so you know that seeing him after he’s dead means that what you’re seeing is just a part of your imagination.”
Above him, the tree danced and the black leaves filtered the light into black legs, and black arms, and black hands that cast themselves against the far wall and danced with the wind and seemed to call out Soot’s name and, in those dancing shapes, he saw his father smiling back at him.
“I know,” Soot replied. And he laughed and waved at his father and said, softly, “I miss you.”
I MISS YOU.
Hell of a thing to say to someone.
My fingers type the words into my phone and then all ten of them give me a hard look, threatening to send those three words to Kelly. As much as my head might try to spend its existence anywhere but in the real world, my body seems to know what’s up. Especially my fingers. They always know what my heart’s up to.
And before you start in on me, I know that texting in all caps means that you’re yelling but sometimes you need to yell “I miss you” to someone that’s been on your mind more than they’ve been in your arms. It’s a good thing I’m at thirty thousand feet again just now. Because at this height I can yell “I miss you” all I want but because my phone is in airplane mode it’ll never be heard. I’ve always found that the best time to wax poetic about some dame that you’ve fallen head over heels for is to say it so that it can never be heard. That keeps you safe. Keeps your world rolling along on familiar tracks. I’ve found that to be the best thing to do with any upsetting information.
And I know she told me not to call her a Dollface, but that’s the easiest way I can think of to pretend that she’s not something special.
I MISS YOU.
Eight little letters with a whole hell of a lot to say. Seven letters that stick out like a sore thumb in a crazy fistful of life. I wonder if I sent those letters to her, what w
ould she think? And, yeah, I know that ever since we beat the terrorists airplane mode ain’t required anymore, but there’s a safety in not being able to say a thing for a while. Not being able to send this text message feels like the heady moment when an idea is only in your head. That moment when it’s untold and perfect. That moment before your fingers and hands get ahold of it and ruin it so that what comes out the other end is nothing like the thing you first fell in love with. I feel like that’s the history of all stories and all relationships. Or maybe that’s just me.
I MISS YOU.
Hell of a little mantra. How true can it be? I met her only once and got to hang out with her for fewer hours than I got on my hands and toes. Sometimes I can’t even believe myself, even when I think I know what I’m doing or feeling. So is it any wonder that I question the realness of everything when that message that’s still waiting to be sent—with that narrow thumb of mine hanging over the Send button—gets interrupted by an incoming message that reads: Do you miss me?
It’s Kelly. In the flesh, digitally speaking.
Somehow airplane mode has been turned off on my phone. Somehow messages are getting through. Somehow I’ve been thrown out of hiding and into a conversation because no matter how much I might want to ignore this Call to Adventure, I know I can’t. I have to answer it. I try not to question Divine Providence or major cell phone carriers when they team up and come knocking at my door.
I think so, I reply.
You don’t know? she asks.
What’s your favorite movie? I ask.
Don’t change the subject, she replies. Are you scared?
Why would I be scared?
Because saying you miss someone feels like falling.
I’m at thirty thousand feet right now. I should be afraid of falling.
But it’s only a fall if you think about the ending. Otherwise, it’s called flying.
And then my fingers are sitting there, crippled, trying to find the right thing to say. But they’re just fingers. They can’t be expected to say the right thing to the person that’s come along and made you feel things that you’ve been trying not to feel for far too long. That’s not what fingers are supposed to do.
And I know what you’re thinking: Aren’t you a writer? Ain’t that your whole raison d’être? That’s a French word I learned from a Nigerian dame. I don’t speak French but I speak existence. I speak fear. I speak insecurity. I speak it all when it’s some unknown hour of the night and I’m flying through the skies and doing my best to figure out why some woman I met is stuck in my head at a time in my life when the thing in my head keeps spilling out into the real world. It’s enough to make me wonder if she’s even real. Like maybe she’s just another thing I’m trying to distract myself with.
I’m real, the next message from her says. You’re real. This is real.
Is she? Am I? Is any of it?
* * *
—
I haven’t seen The Kid in days and I miss him. he hasn’t been around since Bolton. Not since I met with that guy who killed him. Maybe The Kid wanted me to do something. Maybe he wanted me to avenge his death like some billionaire superhero. Maybe he wanted me to be filled with rage. Maybe he wanted me to cry. Maybe he wanted me to scream.
And what did I do? I talked.
No wonder The Kid left me.
But he needs to learn some things. He needs to understand the way the world works. Maybe if he’d lived long enough, he would have come to understand that he’s a part of all of this too. All of us are.
I mean, wasn’t I somebody’s baby once? Wasn’t I a kid for at least eighteen years? So when did I change from being a victim of the world’s cruelty to being a part of it? When did I become the thing that furthers the cycle of horrible things that crawl over the world each and every day?
Never, that’s when. Just like everyone else, I’m not a part of the problem. It’s not my responsibility to change anything any more than it’s The Kid’s responsibility. And if I had a responsibility, then so did he. I’m sure he could have done a thousand things differently. I’m sure he gave that guy a reason. He put his hands up too fast, or too slowly. He didn’t get down when he was told to. There’s no shortage of reasons for things like that to go wrong and people want to tell me that it’s my job to do something?
Sharon has the nerve to tell me that I’ve got to say something about all of this? Renny tries to tell me that I’ve got a responsibility as a Black author to say something about the world? No. Not at all.
My responsibility is to sell books. My responsibility is to keep myself out of the poorhouse. My responsibility is to keep on doing what I’m doing without taking on any more than I have now. My mother and father would have wanted that. I’m a good person with pain all of my own. Why do I have to try to fix the world?
The best thing that I can do is keep my eyes on the prize. I’ve got to make this Denver interview matter. It needs to be the thing that sells enough books that the publisher knows they can’t get rid of me. This is all about making sure that they keep me around. Keep paying me. Keep me touring. Keep me running. And if they do that, if I do that, I’ll even find a way to call up Kelly and fall in love the way I was always supposed to.
Love cures all. Loves takes away pain. Love makes us forget, and each of us is deserving of a little forgetting. My dad told me that once.
* * *
—
I show up in Denver and my media escort is a lively, overly fit woman named Bonnie. When I come up to baggage claim, she’s holding a sign with my name on it. She’s dressed in athletic gear the type of which I haven’t seen since the Jane Fonda days. She looks like someone who is always in motion like she’s sponsored by Energizer.
“———?” she asks.
“That’s me,” I say.
“I’m your handler, Bonnie.”
“Nice to meet you, Bonnie.”
“Let’s grab your luggage.”
We move over to the baggage carousel and, while we’re waiting for the conveyor to start, Bonnie drops down into a few sets of squat thrusts. Her form is perfect.
“So how was your flight?” she asks without breaking rhythm.
“Swell,” I say.
Oddly, no one is staring at her. They don’t even seem to care. This must be normal for Denver.
“Ever been to Denver before?” Bonnie asks.
“I’m never really sure,” I say.
Bonnie shifts from squat thrusts to wind sprints.
* * *
—
Later, we’re in Bonnie’s SUV, slicing our way through Denver freeway traffic. She’s got some sort of apparatus set up between the driver’s and passenger’s seat that lets her get in a bicep and/or tricep workout while driving. Not the kind of feature I’d want in my car, but to each her own.
The bicep workout doesn’t seem to interfere with Bonnie’s ability to handle her five thousand pounds of steel and fiberglass. After a few miles, she reaches into the glove compartment and retrieves a sheet of paper.
“So, it says here we’ve got a few radio spots and one TV interview lined up.”
“Sounds familiar,” I say.
Bonnie tosses the itinerary into the back seat. Checks her watch. “We’re good on time,” she says. Then she reaches into the back seat and pulls out a Thighmaster. She sticks it between her knees and begins banging out a set. The SUV swerves a little to the rhythm of her repetitions. Everything in this universe is connected. Never forget that.
“So, you’re from North Carolina,” Bonnie says.
“Yep.”
“Beautiful state. I love it.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Nope,” she says. “Never been out of Denver.”
“Why not?”
“What will I find someplace else that’s not already inside myself?”
“But I thought that travel was supposed to jar you loose inside. Help you find new parts of yourself.”
“Only if you don’t already know yourself. As for me,” she says proudly, “I am who I am. I’ve met me.” She reaches into the back seat and, after a few seconds of groping and swerving the car back and forth across a few lanes, she pulls out a copy of Hell of a Book. She tosses it into my lap. “Sign that for me?” Then she throws the Thighmaster into the back seat and returns to her bicep workout. “Hell of a book,” she says.
I sign it.
“Thanks.”
“Just a raging, brilliant, shitstorm of a book! So what’s your next book about?”
I ignore Bonnie’s question by looking out of the passenger window. I look out just in time to see a tow truck guy standing with a stranded motorist. The motorist is holding a wooden board—karate demonstration–style. The tow truck guy punches through the boards. The two high-five each other.
Denver’s an interesting town full of interesting people. But that just makes me think of Kelly.
A few more miles down the congested freeway, there’s another car parked on the shoulder. As we pass it by, I see Kelly sitting behind the wheel. She looks at me. A dialogue balloon appears next to her head: “YOU THERE?”
I don’t tell her if I am or not.
* * *
—
We get to the television studio and Bonnie power slides the car into a parking space. Tires squeal. Smoke rises. The whole five thousand pounds of domestic steel and imported rubber lurches to a stop perfectly between the lines.
