by Owen Thomas
She gawks at her bloody profile, entranced by this new view of herself. She turns her face this way and that with the hand that is still applying pressure to her head wound. “God, I wouldn’t want to kiss me either.”
“It has nothing to do with how you look, Brittany.”
“So you still wouldn’t kiss me even if I wasn’t ugly.”
“You’re not … can I have my mirror back, please. You’re not ugly. You’re half my age. I’m your teacher; you’re my student.”
“Not any more.”
I want to punch her.
“Well? You’re not.”
“No. Not any more. But, the statutory rape laws apply regardless.”
She looks at me like my face is sloughing off of my skull. “I’m talking about kissing, Mr. Johns. Are you still actually thinking about … sex? About having sex with me? Eeeww. You can just forget about it, dude. I’m flattered and everything but, you’re like … my dad.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Disgusting, Mr. Johns.”
My head is killing me. Exhaustion is starting to fill me like something thick and soupy. I do not have the energy to fence with her; to try and discern whether she is sincere or whether she is toying with me. She cannot be serious. For what innocent venture, exactly, was the merry-widow in her backpack intended? Kissing? A mere distraction as I get shit-faced on Wild Turkey and leave unguarded my drugs and piles of loose cash? Was it all really just teenage magical thinking in which actual sex was never part of the plan? Have my presuppositions come from my own cynical depravity? Is she not a child, after all? Am I robbing her of innocence by assuming she’s not innocent?
I figure the best response is to shut the hell up and I do. She grabs the mirror again and resumes primping. I readjust it again without comment.
“Oh, come on…”
“I don’t believe that one should devote her life to morbid self-attention.”
“What?”
“Travis Bickel, corrected for gender.”
“What?”
“Taxi Driver? Robert DeNiro? You’ve never seen…”
“You’re not my taxi driver.”
“Boy, you got that right.”
“Whatever.”
She gives up and leans forward to look into the side mirror. She rolls down the window and adjusts it with her fingers. I am about to object but decide to let it go, silently marveling at the narcissism of her generation. The pathologically shallow self-absorption. I secretly envy it. I know that all life on Earth is doomed to extinction, not from nuclear annihilation, but from the simple neglect of its oblivious, self-infatuated overlords. As the planet burns up, the Brittany Kline generation will be styling its hair and bitching about the heat. I give us all another two decades at best.
But still. A part of me envies her and her kind. What a relief it would be to fall in love with myself; deliriously besotted by my own reflection. Sure, Narcissus drowned, or died of thirst depending on whether you’re Greek or Roman, but he lived in love and died in love, never caring a shit for anything else. I’ve got myself, so fuck the rest and all who would judge me for it. How nice.
Except that I am not of her generation and its ethic of insensitive self-bewitchment is alien to me. Instead, I try hard not to feel anything about the fact that she considers me so old as to make the very thought of me disgustingly incompatible with the thought of sex. In me, this kid provokes not an inkling of sexual interest. Quite the opposite. And yet, I am also not ready to be defined as part of the human detritus that gets humored and then marginalized and then shoveled onto the heap, on top of the Boomers, by the incoming sexual-cultural administration. I’m still virile, goddamnit. Virile and a little needy.
We drive fifteen minutes in silence. Her obsession with the mirror eclipses my distaste for further conversation.
“So tell me. What’s Uncle Chuck’s damage anyway?”
She pivots her head my direction and then back again with a snort.
“Just trying to make conversation.”
She sighs.
“He thinks that because he’s a cop he has the final say on everything. He treats my mom like a child and she lets him. Big brother and all that. He got her the job as a dispatcher. He, like, screens all of her dates. Runs background checks on them. Follows them around. It’s sick. He hates my dad even though he’s way smarter than Chuck.”
“What’s he do?”
“FBI.”
“FBI?!”
“Yeah. Not like a serious field agent or anything though.”
“The FBI?”
“Yeah. So?”
I am not sufficiently containing my skepticism.
“Hey, you asked. I told you. You don’t have to believe me.”
“No… I just… the FBI? Really?”
“He’s not working on drugs or the mob or anything. Strictly white-collar task force stuff. Mail fraud. He’s like mostly in the background working on the documents. Sometimes he’s undercover at the postal service. He has a gun and everything but he never has to wear it.”
“Why does Chuck hate him?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“What.”
She holds out her open hands like she is weighing alternatives.
“FBI? Columbus Podunk Police Department? Hello?”
“What, he’s jealous?”
“My dad so totally outranks Chuck in any emergency. Chuck hates that. Chuck always likes to think he’s the boss. He’s in control. You know?”
“Strangely, yes. I do.”
“Chuck likes to pretend he’s my dad. He always bosses me around. He thinks he’s so hip, but he’s so... not hip. He sings in the shower and he sucks something awful.”
“Sings what?”
“Ever heard of ABBA?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“His favorite group.”
“No way.”
“Seriously. You know them?”
“They were big. Seventies. So, like, you mean… out loud?”
“Out loud. Singing. You know, singing?”
“That’s a little disturbing.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So he and your mom must be pretty close then.”
“Yeah. Too close.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, he’s just… I don’t know. He’s over all the time. He’s in charge of everything. He’s, like, jealous of every guy she sees.”
“Okay. Creepy.”
“Very.”
“Jealous how?”
“Just more of a jerk than usual. Sulky. If I had to bet money I’d bet …”
“What?”
“I’d bet my mom and Chuck have…”
“What?”
“You know. Done it.”
“It?”
“Yeah. It.”
“Oh, they have not.”
“How the hell do you know?” Indignant again. Upper lip curled.
“Because…”
“They were both adopted.”
“So.”
“And she’s had her tubes tied.”
“So do lots of women. It doesn’t mean they’re, you know.”
“I know what incest is, you know. My head won’t explode if I hear the word.”
“But, Brittany, that’s a pretty outrageous thing to say.”
“It’s an outrageous thing to do, Mr. Johns. Don’t you think?”
“Well, sure, if it was really happening. Are you telling me that you’ve actually seen them…”
“No.”
“Okay then.”
“It’s just something you kind of know.”
“Know how?”
“…”
“Know how, Brittany?”
“Like when I come home from a friend’s house and he’s been there. Like coming home and he’s in the shower. Singing.”
“Alone in the shower.”
“Well yeah. They’re not stupid about it. But they’re together all
the time.”
“All the time, like…”
“Like every freakin’ night.”
“So they’re close. I just can’t believe...”
“Then don’t. See if I care.”
“But why would…”
“I’m done talking about it.”
“So you’re seriously telling me that your mom is having sex with her own brother. That’s something you seriously believe?”
She’s not answering. Communications have again been severed. To prove it, she turns her back to me and leans the elbow attached to her arm attached to her hand attached to her head on the open window.
We cruise down the 71 in silence. The cool dark air whips her hair as she broods. She traces the mirror endlessly with her finger. I know I’m being played. Her walk on the wild side is coming to an abrupt end and she is lashing out at everyone she blames for the misery to come. My mom is doing my uncle. That’s gossip that just doesn’t die. All the better if the duty-bound teacher makes some kind of report and there’s an investigation. Well screw that. I’m tired of being manipulated. Tired of being the dumping ground for this kid’s toxic waste. Another ten minutes pass without a word and I’m glad.
“Can we stop someplace on the way for something to drink?”
“No.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“No. You can get something at the hospital.”
“Just a 7-11 or something. I’ll just run in.”
“You’re not running in anywhere.”
My only consolation in life is that this is all about to end. And if she thinks I’m waiting to make the phone call, then she’s crazier than I thought. But then I hear my own voice in my head.
We had a deal; she’s just a kid; she trusted me.
Oh come off it, you ridiculous rube. I don’t care what our deal was. Fuck the deal. I’m worried about the deal? She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t trust anybody. Do I have any expectation that she’s going to tell the truth? No. Absolutely none. She’s not going to get to them first. I’m going to be the first one to tell the story. As soon as they take her into an examining room I’m calling the cops. I’m asking for North directly. I’ll get his home number and revel in waking his rotten Lieberman-loving ass up in the middle of the night. He’ll call the mom. I should call Lumkin. Fuck Lumkin. I’m not waiting. By the time she’s stitched up we’ll all be in the waiting room and she’ll hate me. And so what? Fuck her. She’s lucky I don’t call them now and have them meet us in the parking lot.
“I kind of have to pee, Mr. Johns.”
“Yeah, well you have to pee a lot, Brittany. Last time you had to pee it lead to breaking and entering and attempted burglary and a bunch of dead fish. And probably a concussion.”
“I have a condition.”
“Concussion.”
“Condition. A bladder condition.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Please. Just like a restaurant or a truck stop or…”
“No.”
“I’ll pee in your car.”
“Go for it. I love the smell of pee in the morning. No detours.”
Preparation. Cell phone. I pat my pockets. Empty. I try to locate it mentally. Think. Think. Kitchen counter. Shit. It’s still on the kitchen counter. Okay. Okay. Same plan only with a phone at the hospital. No big deal.
I am relieved not to smell urine. I exit the 71 to a renewed, recriminating silence. I stop at North Broadway and head west. There is a surprising amount of traffic for so late at night. The houses are dark nubs, set well back from the street on either side, lit in the ghost-blue wash of the moon. They come and go like planks of a picket fence.
“Look, I’m sorry. We’re almost there. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, I just think you should get to the hospital.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Okay. Suit yourself. I’m just trying…”
“Why do you hate me?’
“I don’t hate you.”
“You do.”
“No. I don’t. I barely know you, Brittany, and we’re off to a rocky start.”
We stop at North High Street for the light. I turn to her and try to lift up the paper towel. She flinches. I show her my palms. She relents and I check. The blood does not rush up to greet me and I feel a genuine relief.
“Remember the first thing you ever said to me?” I ask.
“No.”
“I asked about your favorite historical figure and you said Mozart. No one else in that class could do any better than Jesus Christ and George Washington and you gave me Wolfgang. And when I asked why, you told me it was because Mozart was a genius and that he made the world beautiful in a way no one ever had before. Remember that?”
She nods quietly into the mirror.
“Something tells me that wasn’t a lie, Brittany. Something tells me that was the truest thing you’ve ever said to me. And I think that’s beautiful. I think that makes you beautiful.”
She turns and looks at me. Reading me. Probing my words for meaning.
“You weren’t lying about that, were you? You weren’t lying about Wolfy Amadeus.”
She smiles. It is soft and innocent and pure and I can feel a piece of my heart break open with the connection that every teacher lives for.
“Did you know Eddie Van Halen named his son…”
“Wolfgang Van Halen. Yeah. What a name. Nothing like a little pressure.”
“He’ll never be like his dad.”
“We guys never are.”
“I wasn’t lying, Mr. Johns. Not about Amadeus.”
“Good. But I already knew that.” I give her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. She turns, leans in. I want to resist, to push her back, to be angry and give her the lecture. But something is different and I resist resisting. I let it happen. She leans in, places the tips of her fingers on my lips, kisses me on the forehead.
“I’m sorry for everything,” she says. It is a whisper of a voice, with a casual but warm sincerity. “I have to go now.” Her seat belt is off. She opens the door and steps out into the street.
“Hey! Hey!”
It’s the only thing in my head and all I can think to shout because I’m not thinking at all. The gears in my brain have been stripped. I’m only reacting. The light turns green. She walks back behind the car and I twist in my seat to keep her in sight.
“Hey!”
She disappears behind the U-Haul behind me, which begins honking for me to get moving. I gesture wildly, angrily, at the driver to go around. He is shouting at me from behind his windshield. He’s worked up and waving at me to go. I gesture again. Around! Around you asshole!
“Hey! Brittany!”
I can’t see her. More honking. The driver’s not cooperating. He wants to continue to play charades for crazy people. I put the car in park and throw myself across to where, only two seconds ago, she was sitting.
“Hey! Brittany!”
I shout and wave my arms, aiming for the place on the other side of the U-Haul where she should be, although all I can see is the dirty orange and white truck and its animated driver. He looks to be Middle Eastern. I instinctively begin to chastise myself for just happening to notice signs of ethnicity.
“Brittany! Hey!”
I open my door and climb out of the car as the banners of racial tolerance begin reflexively unfurling in my head. The U-Haul driver opens his door.
The car behind the U-Haul is a diarrhea yellowish-brown color, executing a perfect u-turn in the middle of North Broadway. Brittany waves from the front seat. The tires squeal. Ohio plates. First letter is a G. That’s all I get.
“Hey!!” I shout.
“Hey what?! You got a problem with me?!”
The U-Haul driver is suddenly in my face. He thinks I am screaming at him. He thinks this has all been about him. He is ready to mix it up at the corner of Broadway and North High, no doubt because he is a decent, hard-working, tax-paying, God-fearing American who is sick and tired of people getti
ng all hysterical at the sight of a Muslim driving a U-Haul. I cannot help but look at him wildly, as though I am seeing him for the first time. I raise my arms as if in surrender, showering him with apologies, but he continues to berate me as an idiot racist. My head is pounding in my ears.
I retreat to my car. The light is red again, but there is no traffic and I don’t care anyway. I turn the car around, my passenger door swinging out into the intersection. I punch the gas, flying past the U-Haul driver who is standing in the road giving me that greatest of American gestures with both hands. The passenger door is still open and I punch the gas again hoping sharp acceleration will get it closed. It doesn’t. I slow and lean over and close the door nearly crossing over into the westbound lane. Horns blare.
I make it back to the freeway with no sign of the car. I mount the 71 and head south without any idea at all that I am headed in the right direction. I want to call the police. Three times I look for the cell phone that I don’t have. After twenty minutes, I know it’s hopeless. I turn for home.
In my mind’s eye, I can see my cell phone on the counter waiting. Waiting for me to dial the three numbers I should have dialed when I noticed that someone had taken the screen out of my window.
My home is lit up like Christmas tree, complete with red and blue flashing lights. Despite the late hour, most of the immediate neighborhood is also incandescent, silhouettes in the windows. Certainly Karl Gustafson’s place is welcoming. Karl himself is in my driveway, his garbage cans neatly at the curb. He is talking to a uniformed officer amid the three cars, including two cruisers and the one that belongs to Officer Charles North, that are choking my driveway. Karl’s hands are a blur.
I slow to a stop a good football field away, but my headlights seem to catch everyone’s attention. The officer leaves Karl and steps toward the street. Two others join him, waving me in. I obey. Park. Get out. Assume the position. They want me down. Down! They are emphatic. And polite. Down Sir! Who am I to disappoint? The grass is cool on my face. I breathe and feel their hands. I breathe. I breathe. I want to lie here forever. It smells of Autumn. It smells of childhood.
“Where is she you little fuck?” Chuck’s voice; no restraint.
I keep my eyes closed, smelling the grass, not wanting to look at him.
“She’s alive. She’s fine.”
“Bullshit! What have you done with her?”
