The Light Years

by Chris Rush

  I called Darla, Sean’s sister, and explained that he was acting strangely. “We took some acid and—”

  “Chris, don’t let him take LSD. Please. He can’t handle it.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t know?”

  All these years later, I can still hear Darla’s voice coming through the black telephone, as I stood in some stranger’s filthy living room.

  “Chris, Sean was raped in the woods near our house.”

  I was sure I hadn’t heard her correctly.

  “When he was eleven. I thought you knew.”

  “I guess I was away at school.” I thought of my mother’s warning to stay away from Sean.

  “He was beaten up pretty badly.” Darla paused, but I could hear her breathing. “Dad found the guy just as he was about to kill Sean. The man’s in prison now. Sean just pretends to be okay. But he’s not, Chris. Did you hear me?”

  I felt sick, thinking of the scars I’d seen on Sean’s neck.

  “I won’t give him any more acid,” I said quietly.

  When I hung up the phone, Julie asked me what was wrong. “Nothing,” I said.

  If I told her about Sean, I might end up telling her about what had happened to me in New Mexico. That Sean and I were the kind of boys people wanted to kill.

  * * *

  I VOWED TO be kind to Sean, but only a few days later I told him and Julie that I was leaving for Idaho and that I’d meet them back in Boulder in a couple of weeks. I left the address and number, in case there was an emergency.

  Though my friends knew this was the plan, they were sullen.

  Selfishly, all I could think about was Owen.

  When I think back on this, I marvel at how effectively I emulated my parents: turning my back on heartbroken children to satisfy my heart. It’s the flaw of love—it makes you perfectly selfish.

  * * *

  THE NIGHT BEFORE I left, the three of us decided to walk downtown to get some ice cream. It was an irresistibly beautiful evening, the world washed in gold.

  No acid, only the gentle hum of pot.

  Sean seemed much better. At one point, he stopped and looked up at the sky, pointed.

  “What? The plane?” Julie asked.

  “It’s not a plane,” Sean told her. “Look at how it’s moving.”

  It was moving oddly—a bright orb jittering about, as if trying to get our attention. It turned at a right angle. Stopped. And then, streaking away at great speed, the light vanished.

  At the ice cream parlor, Sean couldn’t stop talking—excited as a five-year-old. “We saw a ship, man. Wow. We actually saw a fucking spaceship.” He had chocolate all over his chin.

  Julie, dabbing Sean’s face, said, “It definitely wasn’t a plane.”

  I remember feeling so happy that night—as if the universe were reaching out to us, giving us a sign that we were safe and watched over, that love would prevail over everything.

  A flying saucer!

  Sean kept saying, “It was real, it was real.”

  28.

  The Flood

  I TOOK A GREYHOUND to Randall, Idaho. Population 551.

  Out the bus window: a gallery of canyons. As I watched the world go by, I knew it was wrong to leave Julie with Sean. I felt guilty. But when the bus pulled into the tiny town of Randall, Owen was standing on the platform, and my heart raced with joy. I’d forgotten how small he was, how beautiful. He had on his blue Alice in Wonderland T-shirt—the one he’d been wearing the first day I’d seen him.

  We hugged for a long time as his sisters watched. Then I kissed each girl to make up for hugging Owen so much.

  When we arrived at the house, Lily wrapped me in a cigarette-scented embrace and said it was good to see me. She asked me what I’d been doing in Colorado.

  I told her: “Hiking Rocky National Park with my girlfriend.”

  “Oh, really. Where is she now?”

  “She’s house-sitting in Boulder.”

  Owen looked at me and smiled, like I was doing a good job. Maybe he thought I’d been making up this girl all along, I’m not sure.

  Lieutenant Spoon shook my hand. “We’re happy to have you back, son, for the two weeks.” He seemed to emphasize that last part.

  After dinner, Owen escorted me out to our accommodations—the camper in the driveway. We both understood the erotic significance of that silver ship. Once my backpack was inside, Owen decisively locked the bolt. We sat on the bed, nervously smoking a little hash and chatting. We seemed to be waiting for dark to fall, but this was Idaho in summer—the days were long. Finally, with light still in the sky, we couldn’t wait. We undressed and had frantic sex—a jumble of limbs. I can still see the pink sex-rash blooming on Owen’s chest and face. Both of us seemed stunned by desire.

  “You look better,” Owen said, touching my cheek. “The cuts have healed.”

  I thought of Sean and his scars. Wanting to block out the image, I leaned in toward Owen for a kiss. He let me do it this time—on the lips.

  Afterward, we slept together, naked, touching the whole night. Even with Owen wrapped in my arms, I was afraid he’d disappear.

  * * *

  IN THE MORNING, Lily made us pancakes and then drove Owen and me to a backcountry trailhead, where the two of us would spend a few days under lonely snowcaps, hiking and camping and unabashedly devouring each other.

  We dropped acid, floated like clouds in the aquarium-blue sky.

  It was freezing at night, so we built a tent inside the tent. Hiding under blankets, we were buck naked, laughing and talking and tripping. Owen pissed out the tent flap and then jumped right back in, so I could “warm him up.”

  Back in Randall, we were inseparable. Every night, in the silver camper, we held on to each other—goofy smiles stretching our faces. At dinner, though, with his family, we adopted flat expressions, masks to hide the light that would give us away.

  Then, early one morning, someone knocked on the door of our camper.

  I knew this was the end: Lily or the Lieutenant finding their son in my arms.

  Owen jumped up, terrified. “Who is it?”

  The answer was “Julie!” A jiggle on the door handle.

  Then banging. “Hey, it’s Sean. Open up!”

  Owen and I flew into our pants. We swung open the metal door and jumped outside, forgetting to close the door. Julie looked in at the single messed-up bed and I could tell she knew immediately. I saw her eyes go cold.

  But after a pause she kissed me on the lips.

  And then it was Owen’s eyes that went cold.

  “Your mom told me you guys were out here,” Julie said to him.

  Sean was oblivious to the betrayals. He reached out to shake Owen’s hand, then said, “Boy, am I starving!”

  * * *

  LATER, WHEN I ASKED Julie what she and Sean were doing here, she said she missed me. They’d decided to hitchhike eight hundred miles to find me. Surprise!

  The Spoons fell instantly in love with Julie—her beauty, her little-girl voice, the balance of boldness and tremor. Lieutenant Spoon suggested new living arrangements: Julie and I were given the camper; Sean would stay in Owen’s room—with Owen. I was amazed that long-haired Sean in sandals and beads didn’t bother Lily and the Lieutenant one bit. Sean fit right in with the family; he had a healthy appetite, ate meat, and was happy to watch TV with everyone. And he got along quite well with Owen—which drove me crazy. It was as if stepping inside a normal household had made Sean normal again. If anyone seemed inappropriate now, it was me—trying too hard to hide my disappointment.

  My eyes traveled between Owen and Julie—the twin statuettes of my confusion.

  Lily hummed and made cookies and her famous avocado dip. The Lieutenant, too, seemed happy with a house full of children. On a clear Saturday morning, he took all of us up in his prop plane to see the sights. He had Julie sit next to him in the copilot’s seat, trying to impress her. He tipped the wings, flew low around jagged peaks, and
squeezed through canyons. When we landed, he winked at me and said, “She’s a lovely girl. You take good care of her.”

  At night, Julie and I kissed and hugged in the camper, though we didn’t have sex. She seemed adrift and I didn’t know how to reach her. As soon as she stopped performing for the Spoons and was alone with me, she let her face fall.

  “I thought you’d be the one,” she said.

  “I am,” I said. “I want to be.”

  She told me that I was the only boy she’d ever really been able to talk to about all that “stuff.” I knew she meant her fear, her father.

  When I put my hands on her breasts, she said I didn’t need to do that.

  * * *

  THE LIEUTENANT, a great champion of western wilderness, decided that Owen and his new friends should camp out in the Salmon River Primitive Area. “Something you kids will remember the rest of your lives.”

  We piled into the back of his pickup truck and he drove us up dirt roads, far into the mountains. The land was rugged, vertical, cataclysmic. Late in the day, we arrived at a remote campground. From the truck we unloaded a huge canvas tent and enough food for a ten-day stay.

  The Lieutenant said “Be careful” and left. I listened to his car radio fading into the forest. When I looked at my three friends, I felt like an actor thrust into a role I hadn’t rehearsed.

  That night, the stars were brighter than any I’d ever seen. Owen was proud of them, acting as if he owned each one. “That’s Vega, in the constellation Lyra. In the summer, it’s cobalt blue.” He pointed out satellites moving steadily across the sky. They were like red cars driving by, no lane changes—orderly and reassuring.

  I looked for UFOs.

  * * *

  IN THE WILD, mornings came early.

  At four, birds discussed their plans for the day.

  At five, it was still freezing but the sun was up, demanding the same of us.

  One bright afternoon, Owen and Julie were sitting near the river on a bed of moss, chatting about their grandmothers and all the delicious food they made. I knew that Julie was close to her grandmother—her dead mother’s mother, who lived in North Jersey. She spent long weekends up there and hung out with her cousins.

  I knew my father’s dead brothers had had children—but I’d never met them; I’d never even seen pictures of them.

  Like Julie, Owen was close to his grandparents and cousins and now he was talking about “this amazing cake” his grandma Greer had made him for his birthday.

  I said, “My grandma made gin and tonics.”

  “Don’t be rude,” Julie said. “Why don’t you go and find Sean?”

  I stood and peered down the trail. Sean had wandered off to look for a waterfall. When he finally showed up again at midnight, we were all worried. We could see by the campfire that he was a wreck, covered with mud and blood and bug bites. He grumbled away our questions and went straight to bed.

  * * *

  THEN THE DELUGE began: seven days of rain.

  The mosquitoes were so thick we didn’t dare leave the tent. Naps replaced hikes. Using the blowtorch Owen had brought to start campfires, we smoked hash with bleak efficiency. We sat around with our mouths hanging open, saying nothing.

  The Maxfield Parrish fantasy grew dim.

  Though we still had food, we’d run out of the good stuff. Julie tried to make meals with what remained. Over wet wood, she boiled oatmeal and carrots for dinner. Sean and Owen added soy sauce; I tried it with grape jelly. Julie just spit it out.

  Then there was the horror of our excrement. In torrential rain, no one wanted to walk very far, and soon a ring of shit encircled the tent.

  Our canvas lodging became increasingly claustrophobic. It smelled like unwashed humans in a moldy basement. Of course, at night, I could hear Sean masturbating. Owen and I did it, too—though not together. Eventually, Julie moved her sleeping bag to one corner to get away from the self-abusers—where she attempted to read The Last of the Mohicans by flashlight. In the daytime, she tried to clean the tent. She scrubbed with such intensity, it was clear how unhappy she was.

  On day eight, when the sun returned, Julie announced, “I’m leaving.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t live this way, all the dirt and smoke, the smell.”

  I took her aside and said, “Please, Julie—stay.”

  “Chris, I need to go home.”

  I reminded her of our plan—to see Gabriel Green in Los Angeles. “And then we can just stay out here,” I added. “Why do we have to go back home? We can get our GEDs in Tucson.”

  “Stop being an idiot,” she said. “I’m hitching back to town.”

  I took her hand. “Julie—”

  Again, she told me to stop. “I have to go home. I’m worried about my little sister. I should have never left.”

  When I said her sister would be fine, she said, “You don’t know anything. If I’m not there, I don’t know what will happen.” She pulled her hand from mine. “I have to protect her.”

  I told her that I needed her, too.

  “You’ll be fine, Chris. You have Owen.”

  “I want you.”

  “No, you don’t. Let’s just enjoy our last hour. Okay?”

  She said goodbye to Sean and Owen, who were stunned. Later, walking Julie to the road, I, too, was in shock. I waited with her in silence. When I tried to hold her, she pushed me away. “Stand back or no one will pick me up.”

  Soon, an old fisherman in a truck stopped for the beautiful girl standing in the forest. He had a feathered hat, a sloppy dog. I studied him long and hard—sad eyes, an honest smile; he wouldn’t hurt a fly. I put Julie’s stuff in the back. Our parting was a single, sad kiss.

  * * *

  WHEN MRS. SPOON came out to retrieve the three survivors, she was sour.

  “Chris, we were a bit surprised to see Julie show up alone on our doorstep. Luckily, the Lieutenant was able to fly her to Boise so she could get a flight home to her family.” She glared at me, as if I’d left Julie alone to die. “And when are you headed home, Chris?”

  “Sean and I are going to the West Coast.”

  “Well, perhaps you should be moving on.”

  The next morning, Owen drove us in his dad’s big pickup. He dropped us off on the side of some desolate road. Like his mom, he seemed ready for us to go. He gave me the same faint hug he gave to Sean. This meaningless gesture destroyed me.

  His truck took off in a cloud of dust.

  Sean said, “To the ocean,” and put out his thumb.

  * * *

  I DON’T RECALL the drive, the getting in and out of cars—but my memory wakes again in Oregon: Sean and I on some drizzly beach, eating peanut butter on wet bread, listening to invisible waves. The Zen fog was impenetrable.

  In tide pools, I studied weird sea creatures, displayed as if under glass. Giant starfish rested with their arms around each other, like sleeping children in orange pajamas. Sean and I were not nearly so content. Without Julie and Owen, we became sullen, silent. I could feel some part of us communicating, though—some secret pain passing between us.

  We stayed in our separate tents as it rained, writing moist postcards. I was lonely. I wanted Sean to be my brother, but at the same time I kept thinking: I’m nothing like him.

  Soaked through, we left the beach and began the slow hitch down the coast. Often, we’d end up waiting on a patch of pavement outside some town, already piled up with hitchhikers. I studied my peer group: young runaways and their jailbait girlfriends, jittery loner kids—a tribe of lost children. And always the bearded men with army duffel bags and worn-through shoes. Our wise men—the veterans of inner wars. I saw the bad teeth, the eyes that swam.

  A few times, Sean and I camped in the woods with other kids. Cheap wine, reefer, and rain. Guitars in garbage bags, a puppy on a length of rope. Ragtag youngsters talking loud enough to block out the real story. It was clear we’d all been abducted or attacked or run out of town. You could se
e and feel the shame in their eyes. None of us really cared what happened next.

  One night, Sean drank too much. He looked unhappy. Maybe the rain was bothering him, the hitchhiking.

  I said, “Things will get better once we see Gabriel.”

  “What things?” He sounded pissed. He said he wasn’t going to see Gabriel. “I have better things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like making something of my life. Like not pretending: Oh, I’m from fucking Venus.” Sean said that when we got to San Francisco, he was flying home, to get ready for high school. “This vacation is over.”

  The word vacation stunned me. Is that what this was for Sean—and for Owen and Julie? A vacation? I studied Sean’s backpack—a small thing, just as Julie’s had been. A few things needed for a few weeks.

  It frightened me now to look at my own pack—a triple-story monstrosity, filled to the brim; there were even wool socks and winter sweaters. Why had I packed these things for summer? I had books, a Bible, family photos. An ashtray I’d made at school.

  Hadn’t I realized? This was no vacation.

  Maybe I wasn’t going home.

  29.

  Do You Remember Your Past Lives?

  I CALLED MR. GREEN from the bus station, shaking in a phone booth, even though it was warm.

  He remembered me, remembered my letter, said, Come right over.

  In front of the station, I put out my thumb. I’d never been to Los Angeles; the traffic was frantic and I was suddenly afraid. What if Gabriel Green, head of the Amalgamated Flying Saucer Clubs of America, was a psycho? I reminded myself that the man had twice run for president, and once for the U.S. Senate—but I understood that was no assurance of sanity.

  My ride dropped me off in front of a mod suburban home. In the yard, all the bushes had been trimmed into leafy balls, like little planets floating on the branches.