At first, he thought his car could do it. The Corvair had a good engine, and the compartment was well sealed. As long as he kept going and didn’t drive too fast, he could probably keep it from being flooded. He drove forward slowly, pumping the brakes from time to time. He was not yet to the middle of the intersection when he saw something dead ahead, moving by. It was the roof of a car, almost completely submerged.
Oh … shit.
He stepped on the brakes, but the Corvair continued to slide forward. He put in the clutch and pulled up and back on the column to throw it into reverse. He gunned it, but the wheels spun uselessly, the car turning sideways, rocking back and forth.
The engine died, and Apollo was flotsam.
Oh, fuck.
He looked around him. The car turned slowly in a circle. Down at his feet, water poured in. He had to get out of here. He pulled up on the door handle and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge.
Oh, fuck, fuck.
He pushed harder, but the door was jammed tight against water pressure. He remembered some public service commercial that told you what to do if your car is sinking. The window. Go out the window, you idiot. Apollo cranked the handle to roll down the window, and water poured in. He turned his body sideways, grabbed the top of the door on the outside, and tried to squeeze his corpulent body out the opening. The water flowed in and pushed him back. He tried again, squeezing and straining, and managed to get his upper body outside the car. As the car sank, he struggled to get his substantial butt free of the window.
The car rolled sideways so that the driver’s side was submerged, and Apollo, still stuck in the window, was pulled under. He held his breath and flailed, pulling hard and kicking with his feet. With adrenaline effort, he extracted his body from the window, popped to the surface, and gasped.
He was completely disoriented. He had lost his glasses, and everything was blurry. His car was a few feet away, rolling sideways and sinking rapidly, with the antenna sticking out of the water at a crazy angle. Apollo put his feet down, attempting to stand. He had lost both shoes but found he could touch the street in his stocking feet, though the current wouldn’t let him stay in one place. As he tried to keep his body upright, his feet slid along the pavement underneath. He struggled and slapped at the water, trying to keep his balance.
He was closest to the east side of the street. He floated by commercial buildings, which gave way to a residential area. There were people here and there, watching the floodwaters. They saw Apollo, too. Some people yelled and pointed in his direction.
He tried to swim. He had been a strong swimmer in his college days, but that was sixty-five pounds ago. He rolled onto his stomach and began an ungainly crawl stroke at right angles to the current. Suddenly to his right he saw a large object sticking out of the water. A mailbox on a post. Apollo grabbed for it as he went by. The force of the current spun him around to the other side of it, but he held on and pulled himself close to the pole. With the last of his strength, he managed to pull his body around the mailbox to the upstream side and hugged the metal box to his chest, straddling the post with his legs. The water pushed him hard against the mailbox, but he held on securely. He waited.
People were gathered on the lawn of the nearest house, at the top of a steep grassy slope. A man yelled for him to hang on, that help was coming. Some kids sat on their bikes and watched him. Another man appeared with a hemp rope, but nobody could decide how to proceed with a rescue.
A fire truck pulled up. Firemen climbed out with their asbestos coats and high boots. They debated what to do about Apollo. There was a lot of talking, and radios crackled.
Fortunately, the emergency was slowly resolving itself. The water had been up to the middle of Apollo’s chest when he first grabbed on to the mailbox, but five minutes later it was down around his waist, and after a few more minutes it had fallen to belt height. Still, he didn’t dare let go.
A young fireman removed his coat, strapped on a harness with a rope attached, and came out to get him. When he was close enough, he took Apollo’s arm and pulled while his firemen buddies hauled in the rope. Apollo’s feet slipped out from under him, but the fireman hung on, and within a minute other strong arms pulled and dragged him to safety. Soon, he was sitting on the sodden grass of somebody’s front yard, dripping and disheveled, his long white hair tangled and matted. Apollo looked like an old, large, drowned rat.
Damn, he thought. I liked that car.
– 44 –
Andy Stands Accused
Andy had to move out. Ramona and most of the other Piedmans had been generous and tolerant about making him part of the household. But what had been merely uncomfortable was turning damned awkward. It was time to go.
Fortunately, he was getting back his independence. He was lucky that the state had never suspended his driver’s license. They warned him at St. Cecelia’s that sometimes that’s what happens with traumatic brain injury patients—the state determines that a person is incompetent to operate a vehicle, and that person has to go through the whole process of proving himself all over again, reapplying for a license, taking the written test, parallel parking while a grumpy DPS officer rides in the front seat. But the police had returned his license (keeping his wallet for the time being as evidence), and now he had his car back.
Much as Simon had come to depend on the free second car, he gave the keys back to Andy without complaint. If he didn’t want to continue sharing Nita’s car, Simon would have to save a few paychecks and buy his own. (He had become quite partial to the Volkswagen Beetle. He saw a yellow ’67 model for sale at SellRite. The salesman told Simon he could give him a fantastic deal, since yellow was an unpopular color.)
After starting the car and getting the seat positioned, Andy drove around the block three times just to make sure everything was back to normal and that he could put the gears in the right place at the right time. Even in his diminished capacity, all the muscle moves were still there. Coordination between hands and feet, and between brake foot and clutch foot, were all okay. His takeoff was smooth and confident. It was nice to drive again. Andy had to make sure he didn’t drift off into a musical reverie behind the wheel, but there didn’t seem to be any danger of that.
As he drove across town, the chatter of the valves on the little air-cooled engine was louder than he remembered. Probably it was time to take the car to Punchy and Pug’s shop for a free tune-up.
Andy headed back to the Piedmans’ to get his stuff. He’d tried to call Douglas out at the Jupiter house, but nobody was answering. Saskia assured him that they hadn’t rented out the room to anyone else, so he could probably just move right back in.
The only other option would be to live at home, but it was too far away from town to consider. He’d started back working part time at Nan’s and was still taking lessons from Mrs. Kellogg. Maybe sometime the orchestra would take him back. No, he needed to stay as close to town as possible.
St. Cecilia’s was officially done with him. They were confident he could function in the world and not be a danger to himself and others. They even held a little ceremony when he “graduated”—Andy stood at the front of the commons room and rang a bell, symbolizing a full recovery and return to the real world, to a hardy round of applause from the staff and patients. They were genuinely proud of Andy and happy to show him off, because whatever it was they did, it must have worked. Others at the clinic, of course, were not faring as well. They would remain patients and would keep coming to rehab until the money ran out, and maybe they’d get a little better, and maybe they wouldn’t. But Andy Zamara was a St. Cecilia’s success story, and you couldn’t blame them for showcasing him. See, TBI patients can get better. This guy did it.
When Andy pulled up at the Piedmans’, a police car was parked in front of the house.
I wonder if they found Erycca? he thought. I hope she’s okay.
Andy never knew whether to knock when he arrived at his hosts’ house. He hadn’t told them he was moving out.
He didn’t want to have to explain the details. It was easier just to load his stuff into the front of his VW, thank them for their kindness, and drive on back out to Douglas’s house.
He gave a little tap on the door, opened it, and went inside. From the foyer, he could hear people talking. He walked into the living room to find Ramona, Saskia, and two police officers.
“That’s him,” said Ramona. Both cops looked over at him, sizing him up. Andy suddenly felt he had walked into something heavier than expected.
“Mr. Zamara?” asked one policeman.
“Hi,” said Andy. “I was just going to … collect my clothes …”
“Could you come sit down for a minute, please?”
Andy came in and sat on the smaller couch. Ramona sat down beside him. She had a creased piece of notebook paper in her hand.
“Andy, please help us,” said Ramona. “Where is Janey?”
“Janey?” said Andy. “I’m not …” All eyes were on him. Was he suspected of something? He wanted to blurt out I didn’t sleep with her! But he thought he’d better keep that to himself. Where was Janey? What had she told them? “I don’t know, Ramona,” he said.
“Read this,” said Ramona, and handed the paper to Andy. It had been folded twice, and on the outside, in a curly handwriting, it said:
to MOTHER and FATHER
Andy unfolded it once, and on the inside fold there was a second title:
and the FASHIST WORLD
The note was written in Janey’s peculiar handwriting, with tiny little circles over each letter i instead of a dot. He unfolded the letter all the way.
By the time you read this I will be far far away. I am leaving to find out if there is any good left in the world, but if I find out there is not then at least I will have tried. Do not look for me because by now I will be in another state or country.
I left because I have no rights in my own house. I also have no privacy. Anybody should have rights to not be SPYED ON and MESSED WITH. Everybody should have the rights to love who ever is there hearts desire and not be MESSED WITH by who ever they don’t like.
Mother you let that man in our house, and I never told you what he was trying to do with me because you like him. It has come down to what he says and what I say. I know he will tell lies and it will not madder if I tell the truth because no body ever believes me.
Have a good life. Tell Andy I love him. Your daughter,
Jane Marie Piedman
Andy raised his head. They were all looking at him, conditions most likely to induce post-TBI stammering.
“Andy, where is Janey?” asked Ramona. Her expression was intense. Clearly, she expected an answer, expected him to know.
“I don’t … know,” said Andy. “Is she … this note …” Andy had to slow down, with so many eyes upon him.
“Andy, she is clearly referring to you,” said Ramona. “What did she say to you? What did you say to her? Andy, this is important.”
Saskia butted in. “Mom, don’t pressure him so much. He needs to talk slowly.”
Andy formed his words. “I didn’t … I talked … yesterday. I didn’t know she was going to …” Andy struggled. He was having a lot of trouble with easy words. They were right there but slipped away when he reached for them.
“What did she say to you?” asked Ramona.
Andy collected himself. Deep breath, find the words before you try to say them. That’s what the therapists told him. He was going to have to take his time, even with the pressure to race ahead and with many people looking at him.
“Yesterday … Janey told me … that she was in love with me.” There, I said it. “She also said … asked me if I … and she could … go away … somewhere together.”
“And you told her …?”
“I told her no. I tried to be really … nice, because she’s … so new … I mean, so young. I just said that I liked her, but was too old for her and couldn’t be her … boyfriend.”
“What did she say?” asked Ramona.
“She … took it okay … I thought. She said she was sorry she … embarrassed me and how she felt … stupid … to think she and I could be together. I tried to tell her we could still be friends, but she needed to be with boys … her own age.”
A policeman cut in. “Did the young lady tell you how old she was?”
“She said she was … twelve,” said Andy.
The two cops exchanged significant looks.
“So, did she indicate she had any intention of leaving home?” asked the second officer.
“No,” said Andy. “Not at all. I think she was sad, but she didn’t say she planned to run away.”
Ramona looked like she was struggling to keep her emotions in place. Her face was hard, probing. “Andy,” she said, “we know about the holes in the walls.”
Andy drew a blank. “I … what?”
“The hole from the closet to the bathroom. The board that covered it fell down, and we found the hole. And the other one in the bedroom.”
Andy looked from one person to another. “I really don’t … know what you’re refreshing … ref … what you’re … talking about.”
“Somebody made a hole in the wall,” said the first cop. “It was obviously drilled so that a person could spy on whoever was in the bathroom. There is another hole on the other side of the closet so you could see the young lady’s bedroom. Now, the best thing you can do for us, and for yourself, is walk us through it. Did you make the holes?”
“I didn’t … make any holes.”
“When did they get made?”
“I don’t know!” said Andy. “I didn’t … see any holes.”
The second cop leaned over toward Andy. They weren’t playing good cop/bad cop. It was tough all the way. “Mr. Zamara, a little girl has run away, and she indicates in her note that you’re the reason. Somebody has been spying on her, and you’re the likely candidate. Did she find out about the holes in the wall? Is that why she left?”
Andy couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence in his head. They—the police, even Ramona—thought he had done something to make Janey run away.
“I’m … I don’t know … about holes.”
The second cop said, “I think we could talk better at the station, don’t you? We were hoping you’d be straightforward with us. But I think we need a more formal setting.”
Andy’s heart was pounding and his head spun, further muddling his thoughts. He rubbed his eyes. Too much coming at once. Too much. Too much.
The front door opened, and Apollo walked in. Or a desolate version of Apollo. His clothes were matted and damp, his hair a mess. He was walking in his black socks. He looked around the room.
“Okay, what’s going on?” said Apollo. “You said come home. Here I am.”
“My God, Daddy,” said Saskia. “What happened to you?”
“What happened to me is I lost my goddamn car and nearly drowned. But here I am. Yay, me. Now, what is going on?”
Ramona handed Janey’s runaway note to Apollo. He took the note, squinted, and moved his lips while he read it. “All right,” he said. “I lost my new goddamn glasses, but I get the gist. She ran away. What would you like me to do? Join a search party?”
“Mr. Piedman, we’re trying to understand some things here, and hoping that Mr. Zamara can explain something we found in the house.”
“What did you find?”
“I’ll show you.”
“Can I look too?” asked Andy.
“Sure. Come on.”
The officer led Apollo into the large walk-in closet, where clothes and boxes had been moved and the cedar planking taken down. The hole in the Sheetrock was gaping, and a spot of light shown through from the bathroom. Andy stood outside the closet, looking in.
“There’s another one on this side,” said the cop, and scooted aside some shirts to reveal the second peephole on the opposite wall.
Apollo shook his head and muttered. “That son of a bitch.”
“
We were hoping that Mr. Zamara would be more cooperative …”
“You’re all idiots, you know,” said Apollo.
“Uh, excuse me,” said the cop. “We’re just trying to get to the bottom …”
“Am I really the only one who gets this?” said Apollo. “Let me explain things to you. I’ll use easy words. That boy didn’t drill those holes in the wall.”
“All right,” said the second cop. “Why do you think he didn’t?”
“Because,” said Apollo, “first of all, in case you couldn’t tell, the boy is a sissy. He’s a homo-sexual. He’s not the type to spy on teenage girls. Sorry, Andy, I’m just telling it like it is.”
“Actually …,” said Andy.
“Second, he moved into this bedroom on his first day here. It used to be Janey’s room, but we put her in a room on the other side the house. So, what did he do? Make a peephole in the wall so he could spy on himself?”
“You’re right,” said Ramona. “That doesn’t really make sense. But then who …?”
“Look at the note,” said Apollo. “First, she says she’s running away because ‘that man’ is ‘messing’ with her, and then ends with ‘tell Andy I love him.’ She’s obviously not talking about the same man.”
“Well, then who on earth was spying on Janey?” asked Ramona.
“Mom,” said Saskia, “use your mind. There’s one and only one person Janey ever referred to as ‘that man,’ and it wasn’t Andy.”
Ramona paused, then exhaled. “Oh no,” she said quietly. “He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t drown,” said Apollo. “You brownshirts were planning to drag this poor boy downtown and work him over for something he couldn’t possibly have done. You have not impressed me with your investigative skills. Now, if you all would excuse me, I need a shower and a change of clothes. I’ve had a rough day.”
Desert Discord Page 26
