Numbers

by David A. Poulsen

  So I wasn’t expecting any more out of this October 29 than any of the other fifteen October 29s.

  Surprise! It was a blast. Jen had a party at her house and we drank a fair amount of beer, ate a fair amount of pizza, and laughed most of the night. Hennie and Big Nose Kate did a hilarious impersonation of me hitting on Patti Bailer at the beach. It got a little raunchy, but I laughed till tears were rolling down my cheeks. We danced some and for a special birthday present, Jen offered to “smash my virginity like a bug.” I wasn’t sure if she meant it or not, although she probably did since I’m one of the few guys at Parkerville who hasn’t spent an evening with the lovely Jen. Anyway, I laughed, turned mega-red (according to T-Ho), and went home with my bug unsmashed.

  Oh, and my parents got me a hoodie that was actually fairly cool and a pair of Adidas that had to involve some serious coin. I loved turning sixteen.

  And the biggest deal about this birthday was that it meant getting my licence and finally getting behind the wheel of the Biscayne and, who knows, maybe even taking out Patti Bailer.

  November

  One

  Which is pretty much what happened. The driving test was a walk in the park. I’d been driving since I was fourteen and I’d aced driver’s ed at school. I nailed the exam the first time — even the parallel parking.

  And the date — my first with Patti Bailer — went okay too. Started with a movie — Adam Sandler, good for some first-date laughs — then it was pizza and telling each other our life stories and the midnight drive back to Patti’s place, which was in the country. Her parents had bought this acreage about thirty kilometres out of town.

  I think she liked the Biscayne. And I think she liked me. When we got to her place, it was all big smiles and a pretty spectacular goodnight kiss. I drove off feeling like I’d won the Daytona 500. The victory lap lasted about five of the twenty minutes back to town. I took a different route home and it wasn’t long before I realized it wasn’t my best move.

  First there was the smell. There’s a dairy a few miles out of town. It’s not anybody’s favourite place to go or even pass by. There’s supposed to be like four thousand cows that get milked there — it’s one of the area’s biggest businesses. The dairy is called Snow White — cute. The problem isn’t the milk. It’s the fact that four thousand cows produce four thousand regular contributions of cowshit. There are lagoons at the dairy where I guess the shit and urine go — it sure smells like it, and every time you drive by someone in the car says, “I am so glad I don’t live within breathing distance of this place.” Or something similar.

  I survived Snow White, mostly by holding my breath. But not long after I passed the dairy and actually started breathing again, I passed some guys going the other way in a Ford pickup. The driver gave me the finger and turned his lights out right after he passed me, I guess to freak me out if I looked in the rear-view mirror. Which I did. That’s when the pop, hiss, whoppa-whoppa-whoppa noise and the way the Biscayne wanted to pull to the right told me I had a blow-out … the slow kind, not the dangerous jerk-you-into-the ditch kind.

  I let the car slow down on its own (don’t brake with a blowout — Driver’s Ed Manual) and coasted to a stop as far over on the shoulder as I could get. I found the flashlight in the glove box, got out, and had a look. Right rear, flatter than a DVD.

  I was okay with it. “Could have been worse,” I said to no one. I talk to myself sometimes and in the dark, a long way from town with a flat tire, talking to myself seemed like a good idea.

  “It could have happened before I got Patti home. Then there would have been the pissed-off dad to deal with when we got back late. Or it could have happened just before the guys in the Ford pickup went by. So this is fine, this is cool.”

  And it was. Until I opened the trunk of the car. There was an empty space where the spare tire should have been. I said, “Shit.” I might’ve said it a couple of times.

  I’d taken the tire out when I was vacuuming the car for The Big Date (yeah, like Patti was going to look in the trunk) and I’d forgotten to put it back in. (Don’t drive without a spare — Driver’s Ed Manual).

  No big deal, right? It’s for moments like this that God invented cell phones. A quick call home and problem solved. And that’s exactly what I would have done if my cell phone had had any juice in it. Deader than a Christmas turkey. Car charger? At home.

  Perfect.

  I had a decision to make. It was too late to be pounding on some farmer’s door and there was no way I was going back to Patti’s to wake up her parents. That meant I had to walk or try to hitch a ride. If I started walking, that would finish the hitchhiking idea. No one would pick up a kid walking along a deserted highway after midnight. They might pick up someone standing beside an obvious breakdown. If anyone actually came along. And if they believed it was a breakdown.

  Or I could just walk and forget trying to get a ride. It was maybe fifteen minutes back to town by car. By car travelling at highway speed. That meant at least an hour of walking then another ten minutes or so after I got to town because we lived on the far side — by the school. Hour, maybe hour and a half total. Pitch black, no moon. Lots of stars, but they weren’t giving off much light.

  So what was the deal? Was I afraid of the dark? No, not afraid … a little nervous was all. I looked up at the Big Dipper. “What about the Biscayne? I hate to leave it out here for very long and who knows if the ol’ man will get out of bed and drive me back here … especially when he hears about me forgetting the spare.”

  Now I’m talking to the stars. Perfect. Talk to the Stars. Not a bad name for a reality show. Or maybe our grad.

  I shone the flashlight around looking for … what? Bloodthirsty wolves that just happened to have come down out of the hills and were hoping someone would break down at this very spot? Or maybe escaped convicts. Yeah, all of them doing life for multiple murders and all of ’em packing.

  No wolves. No killer convicts. But there was something. My light had picked up something in the field. Too far away to really see, but it felt familiar … like I’d been there before or knew the place or something. I crossed the ditch and went up to the barbed wire fence. I waited for a minute or so, then looked up and down the highway to make sure I wouldn’t miss a chance for a ride while I explored. If I explored.

  And don’t ask me why I wanted to, because I don’t know. It’s not like I was drawn to the place by some strange irresistible extraterrestrial force. Actually, about 70 percent of my brain cells were opposed to me walking out there. And a few were screaming “asshole” inside my head.

  Anyway, I went. End of story.

  But not right away. I waited a few more seconds then worked my way through the barbed wire and out into the field. I hadn’t gone ten steps before I stepped in a hole and twisted my ankle. Not bad, just enough to give me an excuse to swear. My voice seemed extra loud.

  I decided it would be best to shine the light a little closer to where I was walking instead of off in the distance. I walked slower. And for quite a while. And I was right. I had been here before. I saw the shadows of the round bales that were still in exactly the same place they’d been the last time I’d walked in this field. I figured okay, just a little farther then I’m out of here.

  There it was. The foundation we’d seen after the beach volleyball game. That plant, what had T-Ho called it? Bidmore. Bid-something.

  He’d said people had died here, I’d forgotten how many. I looked around for a while longer, turning in a circle with the flashlight out in front of me. I hadn’t really looked at the foundation all that carefully the last time but I looked at it now. First thing I noticed — this plant must have been huge. The foundation I was standing next to stretched off into the distance until it was out of the range of my flashlight. Not all the foundation was there, of course — it had crumbled away in places — but I could get a feel for the place just the same.

  I walked until I could see where the foundation met another wall that
went off to the right at a ninety-degree angle. I tried to imagine what the place had looked like when it was still standing. Before it exploded.

  Some people died. Right here. That’s what T-Ho had told us.

  I shivered.

  Yeah, if T-Ho had wanted to do the scary ghost thing, he should have waited for night. I’m not a ghost guy, but I swear to god it felt colder, and quieter, right at that moment in the ruins of that old plant. I remembered the first time I’d been there, with The Six, thinking how great it would have been if there hadn’t been any noise. I’d wanted quiet. And now I had it. I shivered again, looked over my shoulder then started back to the car.

  I hadn’t gone more than three feet when I felt something under my foot. Something soft. My first thought was animal. Like I’d maybe stepped on a little furry something or other. I stepped back and aimed my light at the ground. It was soft all right, even looked a little like an animal. But it wasn’t an animal at all. It was a toque. The black, tight-fitting kind that some guys wear. That Rebel wore. Every day, 24/7, 365.

  I picked it up and stuffed it in the front of my jacket. I’m not sure why. I told myself I’d return it to Rebel next time I saw him. But I knew I wouldn’t really. Because I’d have to tell him where I’d found it. And for some reason I didn’t think I’d be doing that.

  I kept walking. When I got to the Biscayne, I looked up and down the highway one more time. Okay, that’s it … there isn’t a car within five hundred miles. My ankle’s fine. I’m gonna walk.

  I walked … for maybe fifteen minutes. So far nothing had leaped out of the ditch to eat me. No alien spacecraft had swooped down to take me prisoner so I could write an article for one of those magazines they keep right by the counter at the grocery store.

  But a vehicle was coming. Another decision to make. Do I try to hitch a ride? Do I get in the car with some stranger at one in the morning? And what if it’s the flippin-the-bird boys in the pickup? I looked back and saw the headlights. Couldn’t tell if it was a car or truck. As it got closer I was pretty sure it was a car. I turned and kept walking. I was still making up my mind as the car roared by, then slowed down, stopped, backed up, and stopped alongside me. By then I’d decided that nothing would get me in that car. I had my head down and was walking like I had someplace important to get to.

  “Andy? Andy Crockett?”

  A drug-crazed killer who wanted to strangle me and leave my bones for the coyotes wouldn’t know my name, would he? Besides, this wasn’t a he. The voice belonged to a woman. I looked over at the car.

  Mrs. Ellis! And Mr. Ellis driving. Yes!

  The Ellis’s live a couple of blocks from my house. I passed their house most days when I walked to school. When they offered a lift I was in the car before Mrs. Ellis could say, “The back door’s unlocked.”

  “Great to see you guys,” I said and meant it.

  “Was that your car back there?” Mr. Ellis looked at me in the rear-view mirror.

  “Yes, sir. Flat tire. My dad has the spare at home. I guess he forgot to put it back.” I wasn’t sure why I lied. I guess I didn’t want them to think oh, another stupid teenager.

  “It’s late for you to be out here, Andy,” Mrs. Ellis swung around to look at me, which wasn’t easy since she was what those ads call a full-figured woman. A full-figured woman.

  “I was just driving a friend home.” I didn’t feel like telling her any more than that.

  She looked at me for a while like she was trying to figure out the real truth about my being on the road at that hour. Or maybe she was just stuck and couldn’t get around to face the front again.

  Then she inhaled like she was going to say something, but she didn’t. She finally got turned around but she kept looking over at Mr. Ellis like she wanted him to pick up on this line of questioning. Mr. Ellis yawned. We got to the edge of town and I have to admit I was glad to see lights again. Although most of the houses were dark … including mine. Mr. Ellis stopped the car in front of our driveway.

  “Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Ellis. I really appreciate the ride,” I smiled at their backs. Mrs. Ellis turned her head about a quarter turn and Mr Ellis grunted. I got out of the car, completely unaware that for the next few hours my life was going to be like a bad sitcom.

  Two

  I watched and waved as Mr. and Mrs. Ellis drove off — I thought it was the polite thing to do after getting a ride home. Then I turned and started up the driveway. Dad’s Dodge pickup was where it always was — on the right side of the driveway. Mom’s Accord must have been in the garage. As I walked passed the truck, I noticed a shape in the middle of the front seat. A human shape.

  I knew whose shape it was. And why it was there. Uncle Herm had gotten pissed again and was sleeping it off out here. His chin was slumped down onto his chest and he was out like a light. He’d done this a few times. The Dodge was a one-ton dually with an automatic, so he could sit in the middle without having a stick shift jabbed between his legs. I figured leaning against the window would be more comfortable but I guess if you’re drunk when you climb into the truck, maybe comfort isn’t a big deal.

  I thought about trying to wake him up, but Uncle Herm was a large man — very large — and getting a drunk, a big one, out of the front seat of a pickup truck and into the house wouldn’t be easy.

  I opened the front door of the house and turned on the living room light. Stepping out of my shoes, I sock-footed my way to my parents’ room at the far end of the hall. I pushed open the door and whispered, “Dad,” hoping somehow to wake him up without waking Mom. It didn’t work.

  “Andy? What time is it?”

  “It’s about one, Mom,” I answered. “I need Dad to drive me back to my car. I had a flat and the spare is in the garage.”

  I heard Dad grunt and mumble. I didn’t get all of it but I was able to make out “not now” and “morning.”

  “I don’t want to leave the Biscayne out on the highway all night.” I pushed the door open a little further so I could see them. “There are a lot of nuts around. It won’t take long.”

  “Yes, there are a lot of nuts around,” my dad said. He was wide awake now, but he hadn’t moved except to pull the covers up a little further. It wasn’t going well.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Why don’t you get the spare out of the garage and roll it back to the car and change it yourself?”

  I knew he wasn’t serious. But even if he had been I didn’t have to answer that one.

  “Larry, he can’t do that! He could be out all night.” Mom sat up in bed. “You better go with him.”

  “I was going to,” Dad grumbled. “I just wanted him to feel like crap first. Sort of like I feel right now.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” I said again.

  “I’ll get dressed and meet you outside.”

  I closed the bedroom door softly and headed for the garage. By the time Dad got outside I had the spare in the back of the pickup and was standing by the passenger side.

  “Uncle Herm’s in there.” I nodded in the direction of my uncle’s huge form, which as near as I could tell, hadn’t moved since I’d first seen him. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “Nothing,” Dad said. “The man’s dead to the world. You get on one side, I get on the other. That way he doesn’t tip over.”

  Like bookends. “Okay.” I got in the truck. Dad fired it up, backed onto the street, and we took off without letting the diesel engine warm up, something my dad never did. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention that at this particular time.

  As it turned out, Dad wasn’t in all that bad a mood. “So, how was the date?”

  “Great,” I said. “Patti’s really nice but she’s, uh … ”

  “What?”

  “She’s like really smart…, you know?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “No, it’s not a bad thing! It’s just that I think she’s a lot smarter than me.”

  “Actually, I doubt th
at,” Dad said. “You’re quite a bit more intelligent than you let on. But even if she was, so what?”

  It was a weird conversation since we couldn’t see each other unless we both leaned really far forward and looked past Uncle Herm.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  As we drove through town I explained to Dad where I’d gotten the flat. I kept an eye out for the guys in the pickup. No sign of them. Once we got out on the highway, I figured I owed it to him to say something a dad might like to hear in the middle of the night.

  “I’m doing pretty good in social.”

  “Is that the class what’s-his-name teaches?”

  “Mr. Retzlaff.”

  “He still teach that stuff about the Holocaust?”

  First Uncle Herm and now Dad. I wondered if they’d been talking to each other. “Uh … well, we just started the unit on the war and stuff.” Which wasn’t true. We were pretty far into it. I didn’t really want to talk about Mr. Retzlaff with my dad, though. Especially if he was on the same page as Uncle Herm.

  “Your brother told me about it when he had him for social. He said he liked the guy though.”

  Though.

  “When Tim tore up his knee playing football, Retzlaff came to the house a couple of times. Seemed all right.”

  Seemed.

  “Some of the parents were pretty upset with his teaching a couple of years ago. Had a meeting with the principal or the school board or something. Nothing came of it as far as I know. But —”

  “There’s the car.” I was glad we were there and could end the current conversation. I felt like I was betraying Mr. R or something, listening to all this stuff about him. I mean, there was part of me that sort of wanted to know more. But the other part of me wanted to be loyal to the best teacher I’d ever had. Anyway, we were at the car so that was the end of the Retzlaff talk.