Dedication
for great purpose.
also, for my roommates.
anthony,
& sheppard,
& dylan,
& addison.
Epigraph
i always felt there was some Greater love waiting for me,
just around the bend of the orange horizon.
i’m learning now that the world is a circle, & what i thought
was ahead of me is actually behind.
but my eyes are open,
& i can see that i’m coming up on it again.
—arthur louis pullman, a world away, 1975
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: Truckee
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two: Elko
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Three: Green River
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Four: Denver
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Five: The Great Purpose
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Six: McCook
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part Seven: Omaha
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Eight: Chicago
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Nine: Kent
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Epilogue: Time Remembered
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Samuel Miller
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part One.
Truckee.
1.
MY HANDS ARE gripping the steering wheel as water rushes all around me, through the cracks in the window, collapsing the sides of my Camaro with pressure.
If you think about it, sinking is a lot like being shot into space. You’re floating, untethered by gravity, and everything around you is in weightless slow motion, moving with you from one world to the next.
You expect too much from me.
Every one of my limbs is bound by a different seat belt, five of them locking me in place as I drift farther and farther from the surface. It’s darker down here. The water is colder. You never get down this far when you’re swimming.
You need me too much.
If you can keep your eyes open long enough, you get to watch a ballet of debris. All the little things you carry with you when you drive—the CDs, the books you never read, the empty bottle of three-dollar wine, the cast, the ring—they all float around you as if in orbit, tiny planets in your solar system.
The seat belt around my torso is gripping tighter, forcing out the last of my air.
“Alright!” A voice is calling to me from a million miles away. I don’t even turn to look. The voice is above the surface.
BANG.
The window shakes. Someone’s trying to break it open. Someone’s trying to get me out.
“Alright!”
BANG.
I should move. I should help them. I should reach back, let them know that I’m alive. I should tear off the seat belts and try to find the door handle.
But I don’t move. I keep my hands on the wheel, my eyes fixed forward out the front window. The last of my air leaves me in tiny little bubbles.
I watch them, one by one. They’ll fight their way to the surface, but I won’t. I’m comfortable here.
“Alright alright—”
2.
“ALRIGHTY THEN, FOLKS! We’re about to make our stop at the incredibly scenic and naturally beautiful Truckee Amtrak station, home of the mourning dove, the nightingale, and the Exxon oil refinery, on your right.
“Those of you going to Tahoe, you’ll be exiting out the door on your left; those of you not going to Tahoe . . . well, why the hell aren’t ya? I’m working, what’s your excuse?
“We’re ahead of schedule today—yes, folks, miracles do happen—so we’ve got, oh, just a hair less than forty-five minutes till we’ll push off for Reno. Next train’s not until tomorrow, so make good ’n’ sure you’re back on time; that’s 8:35 a.m., for any sports fans out there keeping track.
“If you’ll take a humble recommendation from a man who’s seen this route a time or two in his day, this 76 gas station here has the best taquito you’ll find outside Mexico City, and that’s the hand-to-God truth.
“We’ll see you in forty-five or we’ll see you next time; that’s all, from your brilliant and loyal conductor.”
3.
THE TRAIN LURCHED backward and I sat up.
“Everything okay, Arthur?”
My dad had been looking at me, and I knew what he was thinking. It had been three weeks since I’d been in court, and every time I opened my eyes fast enough, I caught his private, woeful, single-parent stare: two parts pity, one part confusion, two parts what the hell am I supposed to do with this thing now?
He’d practiced this look for years after my mom left. Our house was big enough that most of the time he could ignore me, but when we did run into each other—over breakfast or when the A’s played or if we both got to the garage at the same time in the morning—he’d crease his forehead at me like I was an ancient Egyptian baby left on his doorstep. And he’d had about that much say in the matter: my mom had always done all the parenting, but my dad kept the house, so she decided I would stay with him.
Now that I was a criminal, he was finding it even harder to disguise his misfortune.
He pointed over my shoulder, out the window of the train. “Prepare yourself. Hurricane Karen.”
My auntie hugged me as soon as I was far enough onto the platform that she could get a clean shot. “Arthur, we’re just so happy you decided to come stay with us!”
“Auntie, it’s, uh, it’s so good to see you,” I said.
The Truckee Amtrak train platform is more of a glorified slab of pavement, placed in the middle of a town unaware that it’s not 1950 anymore. The only activity in the town is crammed right there around the concrete slab—one gas station, two brea
kfast spots, one visitor center, and six bars. A guy waiting in line for the train bathroom told me, “In Truckee, everybody does one of two things: they drink, or they don’t.” I think he might have been an example of the former.
“Oh my goodness, Tim is beside himself—he simply can-not wait to show you the deck! Did you know—”
I noticed that she’d emphasize a three-word phrase like she was a game show host, not really talking to me but instead to an audience seated slightly above my head; an audience who could not believe that someone would give away all this money.
“Did you know that we have been working on this deck for almost—well, guess. How many years? Almost? Do you think?”
“Uh, maybe sev—”
“Eleven! Eleven years!”
Game show audience gasps.
“Wow, that’s—”
“Did you ever hear of such a thing? Deck’s almost as old as the marriage!”
Game show audience laughs.
“Oh, no, that’s, that’s awesome.” I gritted my teeth in a smile.
It didn’t seem worth it to clarify, but I hadn’t decided to come stay with them. I was given the option of an extended “vacation” at their Truckee cabin or on a farm in western Nebraska with my family’s resident red-state lunatic great-uncle, Henry.
I figured I’d be slightly less likely to commit a homicide in Truckee than I would in Nebraska.
“He’s had a rough week. Month, really,” my father said, clasping my back as Karen waddled toward her Ford Escape. “Might not be very talkative.”
“Oh.” She spun on me. “We know all about that. And I just have to say . . . Arthur, we are very, very proud of you. Skipping college, and—and your hand, and this girl . . . all of this is so hard, and—well, we know you’ll be back on your feet in no time.” Tiny tears formed in the corners of her eyes as she grabbed the back of my head and pulled me in for a hug.
“Thanks, Auntie Karen,” I said into her boobs.
Game show audience sighs.
4.
I THINK TRUCKEE must be one of the places you go when you’ve thrown in the towel on doing anything extraordinary in your life, and you figure, “Fuck it, I may as well do some skiing before I end it.”
My uncle Tim and auntie Karen were the least extraordinary people I knew. Uncle Tim installed water systems in people’s homes, like a Culligan Man without the brand recognition, and Auntie Karen bought shit at garage sales and sold it on eBay. They’d lived in the same cabin for twelve years, and spent their entire marriage bragging about some meaningless renovation.
Living less-than-impressive lives was a disease that ran uncontrollably in my family. My mother had figured that out, and left us when I was nine. My dad, also an Arthur Louis Pullman, sold life insurance. He didn’t make an impressive living, but we existed comfortably in grossly expensive Palo Alto, California, off the royalties owed to the only exceptional member of the family: my grandfather, the late, great author Arthur Louis Pullman the First. We moved into his house after my grandmother died, when I was five, and we’d been there since, even after he died five years ago. It was weird. People knew that it was weird. My dad and I didn’t belong in a house like that. We didn’t belong in Palo Alto. I was the poor kid at Palo Alto High.
But it was a nice house, and the cabin was a nice cabin, so everyone in my family got to play pretend-rich because my grandfather had done extraordinary things in his life. Even though we didn’t talk about him anymore. Even though his torch was being carried by a life insurance salesman and a B-team Culligan Man.
“Arthur Louis Pullman the Third, as I live and breathe!” Uncle Tim shouted, just as he had every time I had walked into a room for eighteen years, grabbing my biceps and shaking me. He was much shorter than me, wearing a polo and khaki shorts, exactly what you’d expect from a water installation specialist. His mustache made him look like a white, middle-class Mario.
“Look at this guy. You feel stronger. There’s muscle mass there. You been working out or what?”
“No, um, not really.”
“Oh. Well, eating healthy?”
“Not really.”
“Huh. Well, you’re newly single. You masturbating a lot?”
The phrase newly single burned in my chest but I pretended I didn’t feel it. “I guess, yeah.”
“There it is!” my dad shouted, Karen slipping a drink into his hand.
“You know,” Tim added, “people really underestimate how much that helps build arm and wrist strength.” He raised my left hand and squeezed the cast lightly. “Look at this. That hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. That means it’s healing. Just don’t try anything here,” he said, slapping the wall with one hand and grabbing his drink with the other. “These things are reinforced plaster.” He laughed at himself. “C’mon, Arthurs. Let me show you the deck.”
The view of Donner Lake from their house was one of the only redeemable parts of Truckee. The lake sat in the middle of a valley, surrounded by mountains that were covered by pine trees, all the way up to the timberline, where snow and clouds took over. The pine trees were formed into rows, nature’s perfect geometry, creating layered patterns of evergreen around the crystal-blue lake. It was the kind of place where you could take photos for postcards or preloaded computer screen savers.
“Took us eleven years to build this thing,” Uncle Tim said, proudly smacking the wooden railing of the deck.
“I heard.”
“Said you can’t build a deck on a solid rock foundation like this. You know what we learned from that?”
“That they, uh, they were wrong?”
“No. That they were right. Shouldn’t have done it. It was an eleven-year pain in the ass.”
“Oh.”
“Lesson here, Arthur, is that usually when people tell you something’s impossible, it is.”
“It looks—”
“Would you speak up? You talk like a goddamn rabbit.”
I cleared my throat. “It looks nice now.”
“Eleven fucking years, Arty.” He looked back into the house at his wife. “No deck is worth eleven years.”
“Oh.”
I felt a small fire in my chest. I hate when people tell me to speak up, and more than that, I hate the idea that it represents. My friend Mason called it the tyranny of volume—the belief that whoever speaks the loudest should be heard the clearest. It was one of the fundamental things we hated about the United States, and people like my uncle Tim. But I couldn’t talk to Mason about that kind of thing anymore.
He took a sip from his glass. It was a mixed drink, but from the smell of it, I could tell it wasn’t a proportional mix. “How’s that car of yours working out?”
My father rolled his eyes. “He spends all his time out with it.”
“Hey now,” Tim said. “If you’d had a car like that when you were his age, you’d’ve set up a tube for food and shit so you’d never have to leave the thing. What’s it get to sixty in, Arty?”
“Uh, under four.”
“I’ve got a buddy with an Audi who says he can do three point three. What do you make of that?”
“It’s not faster than my Camaro.”
“I don’t know, he says—”
“It’s not.”
He took a step back. The benefit of rabbit voice was that when you spoke up, people noticed. “Right. Anyways . . . how’s the therapy going?”
“Okay, I guess.”
He finished his drink in one gulp and turned to face me, shaking the ice. He wasn’t smiling. “Look, Arthur, I’m your uncle, and I hope I’m not out of place, but I feel like I have to say this. I don’t know if your auntie told you already, but . . . we’re proud of you. We really are, for all the, uh, all the stuff that you’re doing. You took a couple serious whacks, right in the pisser, and you, you made it through without—well, almost without a scratch.”
He nodded toward the cast on my left hand.
My father took ove
r. “You’re at the hardest time for it, too, you know. It’s the kinda shit, gets better as you get older. Bad things happen, people leave you.” He paused. “But you learn to take shit like that on the chin. You get tough. Doesn’t freak you out as much.”
“You find your own ways of coping. Channel it into”—Tim forgot his drink was gone and tried to take another sip, ice spilling onto his face—“productive habits. And you know what? That hand is gonna heal, good as new. You’ll be playing tennis again before you know it, we’ll find you another scholarship, and it’ll all be just like it was. Your future’ll be right back on track.”
I didn’t say anything, instead counting the trees that lined the far end of Donner Lake.
“What? Arty?” My father waved to get my attention. “Why are you—did we miss something here? What’d I say?”
I cleared my throat. “What about Kaitlin?”
“Yeah.” He ran his hand over the railing of the eleven-year deck. “Might have to let that one go. Restraining order is serious business. Same thing with Mason, after you—you know, after court . . . happened. Probably want to give that some space.”
I nodded again.
All of this was the same thing Dr. Sandoval had told me, the same thing anyone tells anyone whose life is fucked up to the point that it’s no longer recognizable. “Everything will get better”—but I’d lived in the world long enough to know it wasn’t true. “The scholarship will come back”—no, it won’t. “UCLA will still accept you”—no, they won’t. “Life will get back on track”—no, it won’t. Not without Kaitlin, it won’t.
But that’s not how they wanted me to act. “Thanks, Dad, Uncle Tim. That, uh, that means a lot to me,” I said, and they smiled at me like you might smile at a dog that was trying to clean up its own shit.
For dinner, my auntie made ham loaf, beans, and mandarin orange Jell-O salad. I knew she’d made it for me, even though I was a vegetarian. It had been my favorite meal when I was seven, and no one had bothered to ask if my food preferences had changed.
“Dear God,” my father prayed to the four of us around the table. “Thank you for all of the gifts you’ve given us. Tonight especially, oh God, we thank you for the gift of life.”
I think he hated praying, and I know he hated going to church, but he did it, probably because my grandfather had always done it, so to stop would require him to question the way things were, and that was something my father didn’t do. He was hopelessly obligated to the status quo.
A Lite Too Bright Page 1
