She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “What? I thought…”
“I think you thought wrong, Ashleigh.” I took another step back toward the wall. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes were wet and she flushed crimson. “Why not?”
“Ashleigh.” I spoke quietly, taking a step toward her. “You’re a great girl. But I’m way too old for you! We’re friends, remember? Good friends.”
“It’s not fair,” she said. “It’s not fair.”
I was about to tell her why fair had nothing to do with it when something faint but insistent tickled my eardrums. “What’s that noise?”
Ashleigh was still covering herself. “Don’t change the subject.”
I walked to the computer and turned down the volume. “No, really—I hear a dog barking. Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t hear anyth—”
“Shh! Listen!” It was definitely a dog barking; I could hear it even over the hum of the central air. Ashleigh opened her mouth as if to respond, when suddenly the air-raid-siren alarm burst through the house.
“Oh, no!” Ashleigh’s hands flew to her face. “My parents!”
“You’re kidding.” My face grew hot and my vision wavered. I felt like I was going to faint, vomit, or both.
Ashleigh looked rabid. “No!” she hissed. “It’s them! They must have come home early!”
I could barely form words. “What do we do? What the hell are we going to do?” My mind spun. I was dead. I was a dead man. So much promise, and to what end? Murdered by a vengeful fitness-obsessed Mormon in a tacky tract house in Utah. It didn’t seem fair. I felt like crying. “Ashleigh!” She seemed frozen in terror. I shook her shoulders. “Ashleigh! Get dressed!”
The alarm stopped suddenly, and the silence that took its place seemed even louder. But it was enough to snap Ashleigh out of her fear coma. She dove onto the bed and pulled a sweatshirt out from under the pillows, threw it over her head. “Don’t just stand there,” she whispered. “Hide!”
“I can’t! They’ve already seen my car—it’s right out front!”
“Shoot…well then go in the bathroom! Quick! We’ll figure something out.”
I said, “We will?” But she was already pushing me out the door and down the hall.
I heard footsteps below. A deep male voice bellowed up the stairs. “Hello? Ashleigh? Is that you, sweetie? Are you home early?” My vision blurred around the edges and my feet started to drag on the carpet. I felt like the elderly wolf in a Jack London novel, ready to give up and surrender to the cold and relative certainty of death.
But Ashleigh wouldn’t let me die. “Move it!” she hissed, and shoved me into the bathroom and shut the door. I heard her yell, “Daddy, it’s me. I’m home early!” And I spun around in a circle three times and collapsed on the cushioned toilet seat, my head in my hands.
Through the door I heard Nancy bark a few more times, and then a woman’s voice said, “Honey, why didn’t you call us? Is everything all right?” I opened my eyes and stared at my unshaven reflection in the mirror. I wondered what it would feel like to be hit, stabbed, strangled, or just generally killed at the hands of Roger Bortch. Would he show any tenderness? Mormon mercy? My guidebook had said that the LDS Church had abandoned the practice of blood debt earlier in the century. I hoped news of that particular revision had trickled down to South Jordan.
I heard Ashleigh thump her way down the stairs, then say, “I’m fine. I just had to come home early because I, um, forgot my contact lens solution.”
The male voice again then: “Whose car is that parked outside?”
I clamped my eyes shut again and reached for the door to lock it—only to discover that there was no lock. Downstairs, Ashleigh was a maestro of improvisation. “A BYU student,” I heard her say. “On the, uh, orientation committee. He was heading up here to town and offered to drive me.”
“A student?” said the woman’s voice.
“He?” said the male. “Where is he now?”
“He’s in the bathroom,” said Ashleigh, extra loudly as if she were playing to the cheap seats. Which, in fact, she was. I realized that that was my cue, so after flushing the toilet as loudly as I could, I took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom and then down the stairs. I felt the curious, burning eyes of the Bortches the entire way down. As I carefully navigated the steps, I saw the Bortch family appear in slow motion from the bottom up, as if a curtain were being raised on them. High-top sneakers, legs like ornery treestumps, and then the big reveal: Roger Bortch, recognizable from his billboard, standing impressively at the foot of the stairs, his waxy blond mane golden in the bright light. He was wearing a blue and black Sergio Tacchini tracksuit and had a wingspan like an eagle; his thick, sunburned neck gave way to rolling shoulders and muscular arms that were wrapped around a confused, yelping mound of white dog. Gleaming in his left ear was a tiny hoop earring that fell somewhere between midlife crisis and pirate. To his right stood Mrs. Bortch, a tiny skeleton of a woman with a judgmental nose and Ashleigh’s apple cheeks. She had loud, clattery doorknob earrings of her own and wore a gray sweatshirt that said MOMS RULE! in plaid stitching. I took my time with the steps, gripping the bannister so tightly I thought maybe it would explode into a diamond.
“Hello, folks,” I said with as much homespun charm as I could muster. “Hope you don’t mind that I stopped in to use your facilities.”
The Bortches stared at me like I had just beamed down from the Enterprise. Ashleigh had somehow managed to change into jeans—though she was still suspiciously barefoot—and she leaned against a chair with a “don’t you dare fuck this up” expression on her face. “Not at all,” said Roger Bortch with a tight smile on his face. “Anything for a fellow BYU man.” He adjusted the dog, who was emitting a low growl in my general direction, and held his hand out to shake. “Roger Bortch,” he said. His hand was bearlike and squishy. “This is my wife, Emily.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I said, grinning like a mentally deficient chimpanzee. My cheeks were burning underneath my totally inappropriate week’s worth of stubble.
“And you are…?” Emily Bortch gave me an encouraging smile.
“Yes,” I said hopefully, returning the smile. She smiled more broadly, so I nodded and smiled.
“Yes, what?” Roger Bortch was no longer smiling.
“Hmmm?” I was still standing on the second to last step, oddly above the Bortches, like I was on display.
“What’s your name, son?”
I froze. “My name.” I didn’t say it as a question, really. More like a resigned sigh.
“Yes, that’s right. Your name. You’ve got one, right?”
“Oh yes, sir. I certainly do.” I gazed into the eternal golden blankness of Roger Bortch and somehow found a lifeline. “The name is Rulon. Uh, Rulon Barber.”
There was a pause so pregnant I feared in another nanosecond it would go into labor. I could hear Ashleigh not breathing, practically see the dubious thoughts coursing through her father’s veins. But all of a sudden Roger Bortch broke into a trusting, masculine grin. “A pleasure to meet you, Rulon. A fine old-fashioned name you’ve got. Would you care to join us for a cup of coffee?”
My blood screamed: Get out! Now! Run for the door! Never look back! But my mouth said, “Thank you, sir. I’d love to.”
I sat on the white couch as calmly as I could, while beside me Emily Bortch poured lukewarm Sanka into a BYU mug.
“So, Ashleigh tells us you’re a student.” Roger Bortch sat in the broad-backed easy chair directly to my left, legs spread wide, master of his off-white domain.
“Yes, sir,” I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack. “Actually, a graduate student.”
“Really!” Emily Bortch seemed impressed and stirred an extra splash of half-and-half into her coffee.
“What do you study?”
I took a long sip of Sanka and turned back to my inquisitor. “Oh, ah…creative writing!” From her terrified perch aga
inst the fireplace, Ashleigh let out a squeak. My cell phone buzzed angrily in my pocket, and I did my best to silence it through my jeans.
A stormcloud darkened Roger Bortch’s healthy features. “Creative writing?” He rolled the words around on his tongue as if they were a foul-tasting lozenge. “I didn’t think my alma mater would offer graduate study in that.”
“Well,” I said, hoping my brain would be able to keep pace with my mouth, “it’s a fairly new program. But, ah, we’re making some great progress and attracting some very talented students just now. Such as your daughter.”
Ashleigh squeaked again, louder this time. I couldn’t bring myself to even peek in her direction. Roger harrumphed and leaned forward. “My daughter? My daughter is premed. She doesn’t have time for any nonsense.”
“I’m sure she’ll be a fine doctor,” I said, figuring, screw it—what else have I got to lose? “But her writing isn’t nonsense. It’s very evocative and, um…worshipful.”
Roger placed his coffee mug down on the table. Emily scurried forward like a mouse and slid a coaster under it. “Worshipful, you say. My little girl?”
He was buying it. I had no idea why or how, but he was buying it. “Yes, sir,” I said. “After all, our great…ah, leader Brigham Young had a full library of poetry and literature in all of his homes. He even entertained Mark Twain here in Salt Lake!” My mind was flipping through the pages of Rulon I had skimmed on the plane. Why hadn’t I finished that chapter? “Individual expression is a truly wonderful way to, um, know God?” My voice cracked, but I covered it with a lusty swig of Sanka.
“Well, I must say it’s nice to have a religious and respectful young man like yourself talking to my daughter.” Roger shot Ashleigh a look. “And to hear that her…pursuits aren’t leading her in the wrong direction.” He sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like she was put on this earth just to test us.”
I watched Roger Bortch’s giant, overly muscled eyes soften. I felt as if our roles had become muddled—that I was now the parent with all the answers and he was the needy child. “I’m sure that’s how all parents feel about their kids, sir.” I drank more of the coffee. It was grainy and bitter. “That’s the gift and the challenge.”
Emily Bortch seemed shocked and thrilled to find the conversation going so smoothly. She wasn’t the only one. She placed a skinny hand on my arm and asked, “Are you from around here, Rulon?”
“Ah, no, ma’am,” I said. “I’m from, uh…Fort Duchesne.” I gripped the sofa with my right hand. It was the only other town I could remember and my pronunciation of it was a wild guess.
Roger Bortch clapped his hands together. “Fort Duchesne! Why, you’ve got the biggest and best pow-wow in the West!”
I grinned stupidly. “Yes sir, that’s right!”
Roger turned serious. “Rulon, did you do a mission?”
I took a breath and then nodded. “Yes, sir, I did. I believe it’s an important thing for all young men to do.” I peeked at Ashleigh, who was clenching her fists so tightly I was afraid she’d draw blood.
Emily refilled my coffee mug. “Where did you serve?”
I was ready for that one. “In New York City!”
Both Bortches gasped as if I had said a dirty word. “New York City?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, starting to enjoy myself. “Might as well go to where the evil is, wouldn’t you agree?”
Ashleigh burst out laughing, and then so did Roger. I laughed too, and Nancy the dog started howling, which made Emily giggle—and soon we were all laughing until we had tears in our eyes, even though for the life of me I wasn’t sure just what they found so funny.
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Roger Bortch wiped at his eyes. “Is that your car parked out there, son?”
“Ah, yes, sir.”
Roger nodded as if I had confirmed his most private wishes. “The Ford Tempo. That’s a very reliable automobile right there. I like the look of it, too.”
“It’s the best, sir,” I said, biting my cheek to keep from laughing. “Listen, folks, you’ve been too kind, but I should be going. I’m staying with my brother tonight in town and I hate to keep him up too late.”
Emily Bortch stood with me. “So soon? Why not stay for a moment—we have some pound cake I could defrost…”
“Oh, no thank you, ma’am. I couldn’t trouble you any more.”
Roger stood. “No trouble at all, son.” He shook my meaty paw. “Thank you for driving our daughter home. And for steering her straight.” He held my gaze and nodded sagely. I tried to look properly pious and nodded back. “And listen here, if you ever have any sort of physical injury or need to rehab, feel free to give me a call.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which he pressed into my palm. The card said GET BORTCHED! I exhaled slowly. “You do work out, don’t you, son?”
I opened and closed my mouth. “Try to!” I said hopefully. “Try to!”
“It’s the most important thing in the world.” Roger flexed his shoulders. “I always say, we are given two temples in life. The one we pray in and the one we live in!” He pounded on his chest for emphasis. I kept nodding and tried to maneuver my way to the door.
But before I made it there, Ashleigh leapt forward and took my hand. “Good-bye, Rulon!” she said. “Thank you for getting me home safe.” Her eyes were huge and hungry.
I shook her hand tightly, holding it for an extra minute. “My pleasure,” I said, trying to make my look say things like Be strong; be good; be careful. But all I said out loud was, “Anytime.” I opened the door. “Good night Mr. Bortch, Mrs. Bortch.” I paused, felt their eyes still raking me, desperate for more information. I knew then that tough as it might be in the future, Ashleigh was going to be just fine. As desperate as she was to hide herself from her parents, that was exactly how desperate they were to find her. I turned back to them and said, “You have a very fine daughter.”
Emily Bortch beamed and threw her arm around Ashleigh, who flinched at the contact. “We know. We are extremely blessed!”
I smiled at the family, thinking, You have no idea what you’ve got. Then I stepped out into the warm night air and nearly sprinted to the car. I pulled a U-turn so quickly I fishtailed in the middle of Homecoming Avenue, then roared out of the open security gate without so much as looking back.
When Reunion Village was more than a mile behind me and the lights of the temple were just a faint, glowing smudge in the rearview mirror, I pulled over to the side of the road, flicked on my hazards with still shaking fingers, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Chapter Fifteen: New Orders
From Mission Control
THANKS TO THE EFFICIENT city planning of the estimable Brigham Young, I had no trouble steering the Tempo back to the airport and checking in for my red-eye flight with time to spare. I left the guidebook in the glove compartment. I figured I had had enough Rulon Barber in one night to last a lifetime. Better to offer his florid services to someone else.
Despite the late hour, the departure terminal of SLC International was still buzzing with the harried mania of travel. On my way to the gate, I stood leisurely on the moving walkway—letting it do all the work for a change—while commuters in business suits and overwhelmed young parents pushed by me, peppering my ears with exasperated sighs as they passed. It felt good to stand still and still be moving for a change. With the adrenaline wearing off, I realized that I was exhausted. My legs felt like two dumbbells sutured onto my torso for the express purpose of weighing me down, and I felt a creaking tightness in my shoulders and neck. As I approached the end of the walkway, I reached backward and made a feeble attempt to massage myself. Maybe I should have stuck around for a few days, taken Roger Bortch up on his offer of free rehab. The thought made me laugh out loud, and I earned a “you’re hopelessly insane” look from a passing, prim stewardess.
As I waited to board, I picked out a stack of magazines from the newsstand, but I changed my mind just before paying
and put them all back on the rack. I didn’t need to read about the “100 Most Rock ’n’ Roll Events of Rock ’n’ Roll” or the “100 Songs to Download Before You Die.” I picked up a box of sleeping pills and a bottle of water. What I needed was to rest.
The plane took off on time and without incident. I had an entire row to myself, so I stretched out by the window and stared out over the wing as we climbed through the stratosphere. I tried to get the lay of the land, but all I could see was blinking lights, then clouds, then nothing. Good-bye, Utah. Or, as I realized I should say, Good-bye, Utah! I never had gotten a good glimpse of the mountains, but I was happy to be rid of them; I felt like they had gotten more than a good enough glimpse of me.
When the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign went off, I stretched and lay out across my row before realizing I had forgotten to switch my cell phone off. Red-faced—and certain that the federal government had somehow been made aware of my lapse in judgment and would be waiting at JFK to drag me off to Guantanamo in handcuffs—I pulled it out and saw that I had a message. Oh, yes—the ill-timed buzz at the Bortches’. I flipped open the screen.
1 New Text Message From: David
1:10 a.m.
Just don’t say you weren’t invited, ok?
I scratched at my stubble. What the hell could he mean? What was he up to now? I felt a twinge of anxiety and then shook it off. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning. Or so I hoped.
When the stewardess came by with drinks, I paid four dollars for a lukewarm Heineken, then used it to chase the sleeping pills. I balled up two pillows, shut the window screen, and closed my eyes. I thought of Ashleigh Bortch, then, and how she must have been both the most successful and least successful runaway in history. I chuckled to myself, then felt a pang of missing her. The thought that someone had chosen me as a destination, as a place to run away to instead of from—well, to be honest, it boggled my mind. I wondered if I’d ever see her again and figured that chances were that I would. Something had bound us together across miles and cultures and years. And it was the sort of thing that proved awfully hard to untie. My relationship with Ashleigh—like nearly all the relationships in my life—had started loosely and then had suddenly gone taut. I never did seem to notice the gravity of things until it was too late. I was just glad I had been able to fulfill my half of the bargain this time, even though I hadn’t been aware of making said bargain to begin with.
Miss Misery Page 26
