“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know he’s in trouble,” says Oliver. “And she’s with him. That’s enough.”
Fletcher’s expression as Oliver delivers the news is so tragic, Oliver can suddenly find the boy in Fletcher’s bloated man-face. Oliver turns and looks down the long lawn and again he can see the three of them in the fields at Seven Suns: Helen tanned and graceful; Oliver tall and lean, still filled with the laughter he lost when he came back into the world; and his son, his son, with his long hair and twisted teeth and his narrow chest bare and nut-brown with sun, the boy a piece of the very land he runs wordlessly across.
“What do I do now?” says Oliver’s son.
“Take the phones to the police,” says Oliver, still unwilling to look back at what has become of that boy. “Maybe they can grab numbers or texts off the memory.”
“What else?”
“Wait.”
“I can’t just wait. It’s killing me. I need to do something. Tell me what to do. You were always so good at that, so don’t stop now. Tell me what to do.”
“Stay here. If you learn anything let me know.”
“How?”
“This is my number,” says Oliver, who then recites a series of digits. “Repeat it back.”
When Fletcher fails, Oliver gives the digits again.
“But you don’t have a cell phone,” says Fletcher. “You were always so proud of not being tethered to some crappy piece of technology.”
“Of course I have a cell phone. I’ve had one for years. I just never chose to share the number with anyone other than your mother because there was no one else I ever wanted to talk to. The one I have now is no longer in my name.”
“What are you?”
“I’m a convicted felon who doesn’t need the government tracking his every step,” says Oliver. He repeats the digits a third time, and when Fletcher says them back correctly, Oliver says, “Don’t share them. I’ll be in touch.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“But you can’t go anywhere, Dad. You’re still on parole.”
“I’ll get permission,” says Oliver. “Stay by the phone.”
“You’re just going to screw things up worse than they are already.”
“That seems to be my talent.”
“Go back home, Dad. Don’t be a fucking hero.”
“Don’t worry,” says Oliver. “The only thing heroic about me anymore is my hemorrhoids. Now I need one more thing from you.”
“What’s that?”
“Your mother’s ashes.”
Oliver parks the rusted oversize truck at a metered spot in front of the great white courthouse where he was convicted of manslaughter three years before. Sitting in a row alongside a Mercedes, a Volvo, a Prius, and a shiny black-and-red motorcycle with twin exhaust pipes, his truck sticks out like a chewed piece of gristle dropped in the middle of a fancy dinner plate.
He takes the dog out of the truck and walks him around the plaza in front of the pillared entrance. Hunter pees on the bushes behind a bench and continues onto the grass where he squats.
“Good boy,” says Oliver. “Don’t be stingy.”
He puts the dog back in the truck, cracks a window open, and locks him in before heading for the grand entrance with Latin inscribed overhead. The crap stays on the grass, a brown pile of stink and waste that Oliver chooses not to pick up. He considers it a temporary art installation, commenting on the quality and inequality of American justice. Too bad the dog couldn’t have dumped it on the judge’s chair.
The courtroom where he was tried is wide and domed, with a mural behind the judge’s bench representing the settling and taming of the land. The architecture and public art are meant to evoke awe, but all they invoked in Oliver during his trial was disgust. They wanted the grandness itself to settle all arguments about the state’s right to regulate the myriad avenues of his love, but to hell with that. When he left law school, he also left fealty to any power higher than his own mores and moral code. He wasn’t going to let his father tell him how to live his life, or let the carrots and sticks of capitalism lead him off his path, or let a system of laws riddled with the precepts of someone else’s religion define for him what was right and wrong. There is always someone wanting to stick a ring in your nose and pull you forward like an ox.
And yet here he is, walking past that very courtroom and then heading up the stairs to the County Office of Adult Probation and Parole. In prison he had to ask permission for everything; that defined the institution for him. Please, sir, may I take a crap. Now he’s asking permission to crap outside this crappy little county, which means, in a real way, he is still incarcerated.
“So nice to see you, Oliver,” says Jennifer Post, her natural smile muted enough to show it isn’t so natural just then. She had to delay an appointment to see him, and her irritation shows. “What happened to your face?”
“I fell.”
“And scraped your hand, too, I see. You need to be more careful. How did your impromptu music concert work out? Did the girl give you a name?”
“As a matter of fact.”
“My oh my. The power of rock ’n’ roll. And did you tell anyone what you found out?”
“I told my son,” says Oliver.
“Really,” she says, her smile brightening to genuine. “Oh, Oliver, that is wonderful. How did it feel to communicate with your son again?”
“Hard.”
“Why?”
“I kept remembering the little boy. And the way we were.”
“It’s not only the son who has to grow up, Oliver. I assume your father had to go through that, too.”
“He never got over it.”
“But you might?”
“My wife wants me to.”
“I’m sure she would have wanted just that.”
“I need to take a trip.”
“To where?”
“Ohio.”
“Why?”
“To see the Cormacks.”
“Who are the Cormacks?”
“Just some people I need to see.”
“And they can’t visit you here?”
“You want me to get out of my rut,” says Oliver. “You want me to start building a life with joy and meaning in it. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“In Ohio?”
“Small steps.”
“Where did you get the dog, Oliver?”
“You’ve been spying on me.”
“We get reports.”
“I just picked him up.”
“Why?”
“He needed someone to take care of him.”
“And you decided you’re the one? That’s quite surprising.”
“Do I have permission to leave the county?”
“No,” says Jennifer.
“No?”
“You know the rules.”
“That’s why I’m here. You can give me permission.”
“I can, but I choose not to. To be honest with you, Oliver, I don’t think you’re being honest with me.”
“Everything I’ve said is the truth.”
“But not the whole truth. Why do you want to go to Ohio? Do you think she’s there?”
“Maybe.”
“Then tell the police what you know. You also might want to tell them what really happened to your face. But I can’t have one of my clients running out of state to chase a runaway.”
“She’s not a runaway, she’s my granddaughter. I haven’t asked you for anything before, not even a tissue.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m asking you now.”
“I’m sorry, Oliver, but the answer is no. Leaving the county without permission would be a violation of your parole, and would most likely result in your being sent back to Rockview. I know you don’t want that.”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“And neither do
I. Now I could set up an appointment with the detectives and provide you an opportunity to tell them everything you’ve learned. They could get in touch with the authorities in Ohio.”
“Don’t.”
“The police are the ones to properly handle a missing-person case.”
He lifts his hand and rubs the crease in his skull. “Sure they are.”
“Oliver, don’t doubt that I’ll put you back inside if I have to.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute, Jennifer. I know exactly what you are.”
Oliver stares at her for a moment before lowering his gaze to the scraped and gnarled hands that lay twined on his lap. He rubs his tongue over his teeth and winces as if he has swallowed a load of castor oil.
“Okay then, good,” says Jennifer, writing something in his file. “Thank you for coming to see me before you did anything rash. Your caution will be duly noted. I’m very pleased with your progress, Oliver, truly. If I let the prosecutor know how things are going, especially between you and your son, maybe we can work together to shorten your term.”
“Jiminy Cricket,” he says.
“I’m glad you’re pleased.” She jots a final note and taps the file with the point of her pen before she flips it closed. “I’ll see you next Thursday, Oliver, and we’ll talk about all this then.”
12
BREAK ON THROUGH (TO THE OTHER SIDE)
Ayana is leaning against the driver’s door of the truck, checking her phone as Oliver leaves the courthouse. He knew he would see her again, the only mysteries were the where and the when. Now those mysteries have been solved. Here. Now. Too bad her timing is crap. She looks up, smiling like they are old friends. There is a backpack on the ground beside her.
“Going somewhere?” she says.
“Home,” says Oliver.
“That’s why you threw a duffel and a bag of dog food into the back of the cab?”
“Spring cleaning.”
“I don’t think so, Oliver Oliver.”
“It’s amazing how little I care about what you think. Get off my truck before I knock you off.”
“I want to go with you.”
“And I want to dance the rumba.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a dance.”
“What kind of dance?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“But you said you wanted to dance it.”
“I just said it, I don’t want to do it. I’m no dancing fool.”
“Maybe not the dancing part. You going after them, right?”
“I’m on parole,” says Oliver. “I’m not allowed to go anywhere except home.”
“That doesn’t mean you won’t.”
“Get away from my truck.”
“I can help.”
“Like you helped by bringing those bastards to me last night.”
“I did you a favor.”
“It didn’t feel like a favor when I was getting kicked in the head.”
“But now you know what she’s up against. And I can tell you why they’re after him.”
Oliver starts to say something and then stops. Maybe she does know something, maybe she can help. He hasn’t decided yet what to do about his parole. The thought of going back to prison is a shiver in his bones, but, at the same time, what is the point of being out if he can’t do something as necessary as saving his granddaughter from the Russian and his mob? He also knows exactly how much he doesn’t know: where Erica and Frank are going; why they are going; how to get ahold of them; what to do when he does get ahold of them. Maybe this girl is telling the truth. He shakes his head at the thought. He knows enough to know better, but maybe he can mine just enough truth from her lies to get his bearings.
“Get in,” he says, finally, before unlocking the truck.
The girl smiles, grabs her bag, and hops around the front of the vehicle before jumping into the passenger seat. Once there, she hugs the dog, who seems so very happy to be hugged by her, the little traitor. Oliver growls a bit to himself before he climbs into the driver’s seat and inserts the key. The starter whines and the engine sputters before it kicks to life. He backs out into the street and starts away from the courthouse.
“How did you know I’d be here?” he says.
“I guessed.”
“Some guess.”
“It didn’t take much. You weren’t at home and the records say you’re still on parole. If you were going after her, you’d have to come here first.”
“Where do you live?”
“I’m sort of between places.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“So you’re homeless.”
“No, I am not homeless. What do you think I am, some flea-bitten bag lady living on the streets? I’m not homeless. I am just . . . between places.”
“Homeless.”
“My mother’s boyfriend couldn’t keep his hands off me and my mother didn’t like the competition, so I’m sort of bouncing around until I get my bearings.”
“And so you bounced around to them.”
“They had a couch.”
“I’m not dropping you off there.”
“I don’t want to go there. I want to go with you.”
“Not happening.”
He drives on, looks into his rearview mirror to see if someone is trailing him, and sees nothing. But what does that matter, she is with him and that’s enough. He pulls onto a residential street and parks.
“So what did he steal?” he says. “Drugs or money?”
“Are you going to take me with you?”
Oliver doesn’t answer. He isn’t going to get swept into promising anything.
“Drugs,” she says, finally.
“Was Erica part of it?”
“No, it was just him. They trusted him for a moment and that was enough time for him to screw everyone. Erica’s just along for the ride. She probs doesn’t even know what he did.”
“Where’s he going?”
“To a dead end, most likely. They know where he’s headed, and when he gets there, bam, bam. But in case he gets wind and goes off route, they wanted someone chasing him, too. That’s why they came to you. Right now he’s on his way to Santa Monica.”
“What’s there?”
“A partner named Bongo who they’re already on to. Frank’s supposed to sell the drugs to Bongo. But I know where Frank’s already been. Maybe we can trace him from there, stop him before he gets all the way.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll show you.”
“No you won’t.”
“Look, man, she might not be part of it, but whatever’s coming to him is coming to her, too. I’m her friend, really. She’s the only reason I’m here. Frank, he’s a loose rocket, and those creeps after him, Ken and Sergei, the Russian, and Madam Bob—”
“Who?”
“The blonde with the legs. Madam Bob. All of them, they’re, like, the worst. But Erica, I love Erica, man. Erica and me, we’re tight. She helps me see things. And she talks about you, her grandpop the jailbird. I knew who you were the moment I spied you lurking like a fool around Frank’s place.”
“And still you set them on me like a pack of wolves.”
“I had to, they put me there to see who came. They’d bust me up if I held out. But they’re assholes. Push comes to shove, I’m with her.”
“The only pushing is me shoving you away.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Go home. Sit. Drink beer.” Just saying it hurts his kidneys.
“You got old, didn’t you?”
“It happens.”
“Yeah, but I don’t believe you. If you weren’t going after her, I wouldn’t have found you. And it doesn’t matter what they said in there. Not to you. Erica went on and on about you and Granny. The original rebels. That the two of you just ran away from your lives when you were young, made something new.”
“And hasn’t
it worked out swell.”
“She just wanted to do the same. That’s probs why she went. She’s following in your footsteps. How does that make you feel?”
How does that make him feel? Oliver takes one of his hands off the wheel and presses at the lump in his neck. The only thing he ever inspires now is tragedy. And if this Ayana is telling the truth, the run across the country by Erica, in emulation of him, will end at the Pacific with nothing to show for it but death. The futility of life in one three-thousand-mile jaunt. It is too brutal to truly take in, but even with the specter of Rockview hanging over his head, some decisions are no decision at all.
“Give me your phone,” he says.
“I’m not giving you my phone,” she says.
“Give me your phone or get out.”
“Just chill, ayight. What, you making a call? You don’t got one of your own?”
“That’s right.”
“You need to get a life,” she says before taking out her phone, unlocking it, and handing it to him.
He looks at it for a moment before tossing it out the truck window. It lands with a clack on the asphalt.
“What the fuck,” she shouts as she scrambles to open the passenger door.
“If you’re coming with me, you come without your phone.”
“You’re going to let me come?”
“Without your phone.”
“It’s my phone, man. I’ll turn it off, I promise. I just upgraded.”
Oliver raises an eyebrow and waits. He can see the indecision in her, the nervousness rising, and then, in resignation, she slams shut the door. “What am I going to do without my phone?”
“Maybe you’ll read a book,” he says. “And we can listen to music. I have tapes. You like the Eagles?”
“No.”
“Good. Are we done here?”
“We won’t even know how to go without Google.”
He points to the little screen attached to his fan vent. “I have a GPS.”
“Without a phone?”
“That’s right.”
“They even make those anymore?”
“Some people don’t like to be traced.”
“Cool that.” She hesitates, looks for a moment like she is ready to dart out and pick up the phone, but then leans back and closes her eyes.
“Ayight, then,” she says.
“All righty,” he repeats. “Did I say that okay?”
Freedom Road Page 8
