I pull over again, put the car into park, turn off the engine, and place my hands back on top of the wheel. Sweat is beading on my forehead, and I have to reach up and wipe the moisture away before it runs into my eyes.
The police car stops a bit farther back than it had before, and at an angle so that the sun reflects off the windshield and I can’t see inside. I wait. Thirty seconds go by. Another thirty. Sweat is running from my armpits and down my side. He doesn’t get out. Then the cruiser starts rolling again, pulls back onto the road and speeds past me, away and out of sight and back toward town, leaving me sitting here alone, engine turned off, even though no one told me to this time.
I sit for a long moment and then bring my hands down hard on the wheel, letting go with every curse word I can think of. I turn the engine on and slam the gas, pulling back onto the road in a shower of dust and gravel without checking over my shoulder, accelerating to forty, fifty, sixty. I round the next turn and see empty road, maybe another three-quarters of a mile on a straight shot through the wetland. After that, the road bends again and reenters development. I step harder on the gas, heart hammering in my chest, hands and fingers tingling. Faster. Seventy miles per hour. Hands off the wheel and onto my lap. I shut my eyes and count.
How far away was the bend in the road? Half a mile? One, two, three. Slower. Make it seconds. Let the dice roll. Four-potato, five-potato, six-potato. I feel the road humming beneath my wheels, feel the gas pedal touch the floor under my right foot. I’ll go to ten. I won’t tamper. I won’t speed up the count. Eight-potato.
I can’t do it. I open my eyes. The bend is right there, in front of me. I see the trees, can feel the impact in my body, in the bones in my face that will splinter if I hit at this speed.
The Explorer has wandered over to the left side of the road. The speedometer says ninety-five. I grab the wheel and slam on the brakes, and if another car had been coming around the curve going the other way, everyone involved would have been dead. But there is no other car, and the truck grips the road and makes it through the turn, and I slow it down to fifty-five as I move back over to the right side of the street. More traffic here, more strip malls, more nail salons. I pull into a parking lot and stop.
Eight. I made it only to eight. Ten and I would have been dead. I’d be dead right now. They could put me in the ground, right where I belong, right beside Stevie Abrams and Andy Gerber and Principal Schultz.
I sit in my car shaking, the sweat drying on my face in the cool of the air conditioning, and I make one decision. I may be a coward, I may be a fake, I may be a ghost, but I will not be intimidated by that goddamned cop. If he is meant to fuck with me, if he is meant to kill me, I don’t care. I’m not going to stop seeing Sarah, and I’m not going to hide from him.
I pull back onto the road, and five minutes later I’m sitting in my driveway. The car is still running when I hear tires on gravel; I spin around in my seat, but it’s not a police cruiser. It’s a minivan, and I recognize the woman who climbs out.
Mrs. Maiden approaches the driver’s-side window, and I roll it down to speak to her. She’s holding a large paper bag.
“Hello, Matthew.”
“Hello, Mrs. Maiden.”
“Are you just getting home?”
“Yeah. I was at baseball practice.” I turn the engine off and slowly get out, then lean against the side of the truck, staring down at my shoes. I couldn’t feel emptier inside. “I think my parents are out, Mrs. Maiden.”
“That’s all right. I wanted to come by and see you.”
“Okay.” It is an effort to look up at her. The sun is setting, and it catches every wrinkle on the side of her face; they spider out around her eyes and mouth. Her gray hair is braided together with a string of beads. She’s watching me closely, like the way she looked at me at the beach.
“Do I still look sad?” I ask.
“You look angry now.”
I shake my head and look down again. “I don’t feel it.”
“How do you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything.”
She nods as though it makes sense. I wait for whatever advice she wants to offer. I’ll listen quietly. I don’t think I can make myself play along, but I’ll try to be kind, and then as soon as I can, I’ll go inside and shower off, or maybe go right to sleep.
“Matthew, I want to give you something.” She reaches into the bag, takes out a book, and hands it to me. A Children’s Illustrated Atlas. There’s a picture of the world on the cover, and around it are photos of different places: the Eiffel Tower, Easter Island, the Great Wall of China. The edges are worn. I open it up. Kendra Maiden is neatly printed in green crayon on the first page.
“I’ve been visiting everyone, touching base before you all leave town. You’re my last stop.”
I’d heard. I page through the book. There are maps, of course, and pages about various destinations. Each one has a little box neatly drawn in pen next to it.
“She made boxes next to every place she wanted to go,” Mrs. Maiden says.
“She wanted to go to all of them.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a check in the box next to Niagara Falls.”
“We made it to that one, the summer before.”
It’s the only one that’s checked off. I stare at it for another moment, a photo of the waterfall, millions of gallons of water pouring over the edge, into the mist, and then I close the book and hand it back.
“I can’t take this.”
“I want you to have it, Matthew.”
“I wasn’t there.”
She nods. “I know. I wasn’t either. And I hate myself every day for not being there with her.”
“You didn’t have any reason to be there.”
“That doesn’t matter one bit.”
I don’t look at her.
“We weren’t friends, Mrs. Maiden. I hardly even remember her.” I feel awful saying it, but I can’t stop myself from going on. “She wasn’t . . . I mean, we didn’t ever do anything together. I wasn’t her friend. I’m sorry. She wouldn’t want me to have this.”
She draws a deep breath and looks down for a moment before turning back to me. “I know that you and Kendra weren’t friends, Matthew. Maybe you would have been if she had lived. Who knows? Who knows who she would have turned into? Who she would have been friends with? I’m not trying to write you into a character you’re not. And I’m not telling you that she would have wanted you to have this. I want you to have it. It’s for me. I’d like you to take it, and have it, for me.”
I look at her and see that, although she hasn’t looked away, she has begun to cry.
“Will you accept it from me?”
I shake my head.
Another moment goes by before she drops her hand. “That’s all right. It’s all right, Matthew. You don’t have to take it.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Maiden—”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Neither of us do. None of us do. We’re all just trying to figure this out.”
“I know.”
“I hope . . . Matthew, I just hope that you don’t have to be alone.”
I hear her retreat to her van and get inside, and then the wheels rolling back down the driveway, onto the street. I don’t look up until the sound of her motor fades away, and then I go inside.
Eleven
— Cole —
In ancient China, Buddhist monks used to practice Hua Tou. It means “the point beyond which speech exhausts itself.” Basically—and I may be getting this slightly wrong—they would say or think the same phrase over and over and over again, just examining it and examining it forever. Really, forever. They’d get one for their entire lives.
Still, even the most devout monk would have nothing on the way I’ve studied Viola’s messages over the last three weeks.
Here’s the first one:
Hey Cole at the airport & not sure when I’ll have svc on my phone but fun seeing you last night
> So far, so good. Casual, but encouraging. She took the time to text.
Still . . . “fun.” You have fun with a friend. You can have fun with a puppy.
Then the next one, sent right after:
Too bad you had to leave early
Just that. Seven words. Seven words I’ve read over and over again until they’re burning in my brain.
And then the third:
maya walker winter get back
“Maya walker winter get back.” A phrase which very slowly gave up its meaning over hours and hours of contemplation. After determining that there’s no one named “Maya Walker” in East Ridge or in any nearby town and that she is not a famous person (although it turns out that there is a dermatologist in the city named Dr. Maya Walker). After determining that “Winter Get Back” is not the name of a poem, or a book, or a song. After hours of analysis, I think I have it. I think that she shot off one more message while heading for her plane and that she garbled it. I think the message was supposed to be “Maybe we can walk Winnie when I get back.”
At least, I hope that’s what it was. Because right at this moment, I am sitting on the hood of my car, outside her house, holding a dog bone and beginning to doubt myself.
I probably should have just texted her back.
Her front door opens, and I straighten, shading my eyes against the light from the rising sun, and then I hear a cry of protest.
“Winnie!”
The foul, evil beast is streaking toward me across the lawn, teeth bared, ready to do battle. I’ve never wanted to hurt an animal before, but I could now. I really could. Instead, I slide off the hood, take two steps onto the grass, and throw the bone.
It occurs to me, in the moment before he gets to it, that maybe this dog won’t be interested. Maybe all he wants to do is to sink his dirty little British teeth into the soft flesh of my calf. But he’s on it, grappling with the bone, slobbering and licking and biting, and I’m wondering whose dumb idea it was to domesticate wolves, anyway.
And then I hear her voice.
“Cole Anthony Hewitt.”
She’s walking across the lawn, her hair wet from the shower. Short white skirt, pink blouse, and a smile on her face that makes me want to tell the universe that if this is the best moment it ever gives me, then I won’t have any complaints at all.
“How have you been?” she asks.
“Good. I’ve been good,” I manage. “How was Haiti?”
“Lovely. A bit hot. How’s the grocery business?”
“Thriving.”
She laughs and watches Winnie wrestling with the bone. “Look at that happy dog.” She retrieves a leash from the house, and a few minutes later, the three of us—me, Viola, and Winnie—are making our way along Chester Arthur Avenue, the sun at our backs. I tell her about deciphering the text, and she laughs again.
“You never texted me back!”
“I—uh—I thought you didn’t have cell service.”
“We did, sometimes. Some of the places we stayed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. You just left me to Conrad’s tender mercies; I wound up having to message with him the whole time.”
“Oh—Conrad. Did you, um, work things out about Nantucket?”
“Blech. It doesn’t really get worked out at our level. It’s a parent thing, you know?”
“Sure.”
“I think it will kill the last few days before I leave for school, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
She sighs. I look at her, and she is looking down, one lock of hair hanging over the side of her face. I want to reach out and hook it back over her ear. “There are probably worse things,” I offer, though at the moment, I’m having a hard time thinking of anything worse than the way I’m going to feel when she leaves with Conrad at the end of the summer.
“There are,” she says. “There are indeed. It’s just that it’s a bit hard to really be comfortable with somebody when they’ve seen you naked, isn’t it?” She laughs, then glances over at me in time to witness my face turning a color that, while indescribable and dramatic, only distantly reflects the chemical event that just took place deep within my gut. “Oh, I’m sorry, Cole. Sometimes I forget which side of the pond I’m on, you know?”
My reaction has much less to do with being an American prude than it does with being an American virgin. I manage a laugh and a shrug, and we lapse into an awkward silence as we walk.
“What were you building in Haiti?” I finally ask, although I feel like all the air has been let out of me.
She brightens. “A new school. You wouldn’t believe what it was like out there, Cole. The circumstances.”
“What did they have you doing?”
“I was in charge of the spackle.” She seems proud.
“Really? The spackle?”
“Yes, you know, smoothing over all the nail heads.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“Cole, those children will be going to school in perfectly spackled classrooms.”
I laugh. “I’m sure they will.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“No, I’m just saying—”
“They were God . . . damn . . . perfect.”
“I am one hundred percent sure that every wall in that school will be pristine.”
She pauses for a moment, and then she laughs too. “I suppose I don’t ever stop, do I?”
I shake my head. “Have you done your one pointless thing yet?”
“It’s on my to-do list.”
“You might be missing the, um—”
“I probably am.” Her hair has dried in the sun and is hanging limply down her back. She pushes her short sleeves up onto her shoulders. “God, it’s getting hot. Let’s get home. Come this way.”
Viola leads me on a shortcut between two houses and across a series of back lawns. Three of them have pools, but no one is in any of them. In fact, there’s no sign of life, human or otherwise. No squirrels in the scrawny, newly planted trees. No birds. We’re halfway across a huge lawn—perfectly green, with every single blade of grass cut to the same length—when I hear a hissing sound, and a moment later I’m hit by a spray of water. Viola cries out, Winnie yelps and barks like crazy, and we all run back, away from the line of sprinklers that have just come on.
“Oh, Christ!” Viola says, looking at my wet shirt. “I’m sorry, Cole, this is a crappy shortcut, isn’t it? We’ll have to go all the way around.”
I look up the slope of the lawn at the spray of water. There’s a shimmer of a rainbow in it. It felt amazing on my face, and a thought comes to me. Something I haven’t done since I was a little kid. The exact thing that Matt would do right now, if he were here. The thing that I won’t do if I give myself another moment to think.
I grin. “No, we don’t.” And I am off, running across the wet grass and then leaping through the spray. I land on the other side and spin around to see Viola and Winnie both staring at me. “Come on!” I call.
Viola shakes her head. “You’re insane!” she calls back.
I wipe the water from my face. “It feels great! Come on, Viola!”
She smiles, takes a step, and hesitates. Winnie is sitting behind her, and it doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. I hop back through the wall of water and jog down to them. “You can do it,” I tell her. “You’ll be glad you did.” I scoop Winnie up, holding him under one arm like a football. He twists his head around but can’t quite find an angle from which to sink his teeth into me. Viola is still holding on to his leash. “Ready?” I say. “One, two . . .”
And we’re off, running alongside each other, connected by Winnie’s leash. We jump at the same time, sailing through the spray, and we land, laughing, on the lawn beyond. I set Winnie down.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Viola is still laughing and shaking her head. “Not so bad at all.” She looks at me for a moment. “Let’s do it again!” She g
rabs my arm and pulls me with her as she leaps back into the mist. We run back down the hill, leaving Winnie to shake himself off and to sit, watching, from just outside the reach of the sprinklers.
“Now look what you’ve done!” I say. “There’s only one way back . . .”
Viola is laughing so hard, she’s doubled over. She lets out a whoop and charges back into the spray. I’m right behind her. Back and forth, jumping and slipping on the wet grass, laughing so hard we can’t talk, even though there’s nothing particularly funny, other than the other person being soaked to the skin. I try not to stare at the way her bra is showing right through her shirt. Winnie waits patiently.
“Oh, my God, Cole,” she finally gasps, “I am a mess!”
I laugh and wipe the water out of my face.
“Come on,” she says. She picks Winnie’s leash up from off the ground and looks back at me. “Thank you. That was fun.”
We walk on, and a few turns later, we wind up in her side yard, though I don’t recognize it until we come around to the front and I see my car parked by the curb. All these big houses look just the same. Her driveway is empty; when we left, there had been a silver Mercedes parked here. Viola tosses the plastic bag with Winnie’s poop into a trashcan, looks around, and then focuses on me.
“Do you want to come in?”
“Oh—sure.”
She opens the side door and leads me into a mudroom nearly as large as my kitchen. “Just kick off your shoes.” I do, and she does the same as she pushes Winnie into a cage and hangs his leash on a hook. “Make yourself at home. I’ll grab us some towels.”
I remember the inside of her house from when I was here for the T. S. Eliot project, but it seems bigger now that it’s just the two of us. I wander through the family room, trying not to drip on the furniture, looking at the countless framed photos arranged over the bookshelves and the long side table. Viola and her parents snowboarding, parasailing, water skiing. All things I’ve never tried. There’s not a spot of dust on any of the surfaces.
Every Moment After Page 18
