We are seated, and the place is warm and steamy and smells greasy and good. We are still pretty full from breakfast, but we can figure out where we are going. We order coffee and are about to start tracking the undead when we hear the waitress over the bustling noise of lunch:
“Mel! Mel, damn it! That lil’ ole husky dog of yours is out again and running all over the parking lot! Go put her back before she gets hit too! And make sure she stays! ’Cuz that is the level last thing I need again—another dead damn dog making kids cry and driving off business! Hear me? Go get her!”
The guy she’s talking to is sitting in the booth across from us with two other guys. They all look out the window and laugh, and the one called Mel cusses and gets up and waddles out the door. We look out our window and see him chase her (a her because she’s obviously nursing pups) around the parking lot. She’s freaking terrified of him and cowers when he corners her. We see him kick her and grab her by the scruff of her neck and sling her in the back of a pickup. He ties a rope around her neck and comes back in. He is greeted with laughter from the two men he is sitting with, and they return to their coffee. As I return to mine.
I look at Beau and Leonie. They are staring at the dog in the truck bed and then back at the guy, then back to the dog. Beau is pale again, and Leo is getting glassy-eyed.
“What.” It’s not a question. I’m not thinking about the life that dog has. I won’t.
They both look at me. At least Leonie does. Her lower lip is trembling.
“You know what . . .” Beau is staring at the dog.
“Call the Humane Society. We gotta go.”
“That’ll take days.” He’s starting to get up.
“Beau, you just got your lights punched out a week ago. Just let it go.” I try to grab him before he gets all the way up. Man, I thought gay guys were supposed to be all wussy and such. I didn’t expect him to be rocking his Jet Li every five minutes.
He stands up and turns to the guys. I can tell he doesn’t want to. There’s something reluctant about the way he moves that informs me that he’d let it go if he could.
But he’s not that guy.
“Nice job with the dog.” He sounds breathless. His hands shake with outrage and adrenaline, and he clenches them.
The old dudes turn and look at him. He’s standing at their table. They are struck dumb.
He breathes shallow and rapidly. “Ever stop and think what a horrible life that dog has? Which you could change any time you want. She feels pain just like you do.” Beau hasn’t raised his voice, but the old guy Mel sure does.
“What thee hell?! What have we here? Well, la-di-da! Mr. Fancy Shews! Why don’t you sit the hell down and shut thee hell up and mind yer own gatdank bizness?!” he squalls.
Then he bangs the table. “Who the hell’re you, anyway? Just go back to Seattle, ya gatdank vampire turist!” (Which, if he wasn’t such a douche bag, would be hilarious.) “You know what, you snotty little 206er?” (Seattle’s area code) “I’m-a kick yer ass!”
He struggles to squeeze out from the booth to come kick Beau’s ass. His friends restrain him with guffaws. The waitress comes over. The rest of the restaurant is watching. Leonie and I get up. The waitress is red. Her face looks shiny. She’s mad.
“What did I just say?! Didn’t I just say I have enough to deal with already?” She turns to us. “Listen, you kids just go—now—no, just shut up and get! No, don’t worry about the check. Just leave. As for you three: It’s something every day with you! Mel, I don’t know why you drive all the way into town every morning to make as much trouble as you do! Someday I would like just one morning of my life to go smoothly! ’Cuz one of these days I will eighty-six you.” She’s looking right at the old dudes when she says that. I get the distinct feeling they cause more trouble than you think they would.
“I’m-a shoot that bitch, soon as I sell her last puppy,” Mel says as we pass them.
Lee stops.
“No, he won’t! Keep going and never mind!” orders the waitress. “You, Mel—shut up!”
The door is closed behind us. We walk to our car.
“I’m calling the cops.”
“No, don’t, Beau. You forget—we’re on the lam.”
He looks at me with something like pity.
“Rusty, don’t be heartless. How can you not stop cruelty when you see it?”
He’s right, but all I feel is a boundless irritation.
“Oh, all right! But call from that old phone booth and use a fake name.”
Which he does. He picks up the tiny phone book on the cord and reads a name and then an address when asked for one. Pretty slick, I must say. We get in the van to wait for him.
All this time Leonie has been silent. She looks sick to her stomach. I glance at her in the rearview, and she’s staring out the window, all gray-faced and stony.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says vaguely. She’s lost in a fog.
Beau gets back in. He’s quiet too.
“So are they going to come?” I ask brightly.
“Yeah.” He sounds dispirited. “They didn’t sound too impressed.”
“Dude, you did what you could,” I say as we pull out. I’m glad to get out of here. “Let’s go find whatever Twilight thing you guys are wanting and get back on the road. I want to show you the ocean.”
There actually is a Twilight store in Forks. A bunch of them. And all the restaurants offer stuff like Bella Melts and Edward Rings. I start riffing that the Bella Melt is way too cheesy and is it just me or are the Edward Rings always cold? They roll their eyes at my hee-larity. We pass a sign for smoked salmon taped to a bumper sticker that says “Werewolves <3 La Push.”
I tell you what: These guys ain’t dumb. Some of the young people of the Quileute tribe also made T-shirts, which, rumor has it, the elders find hilarious. They’re all, “Yep, absolutely. We’re totally werewolves. Now gimme thirty bucks for that T-shirt.”
And lo, the faithful come on pilgrimage, some wearing street clothes, others in character.
And they come to the store and are taken on a tour (still very popular), and it is cool and it is so amazing and it is hella tight, as well as freaking awesome. For it is the Twilight tour.
Or so I was made to understand by the faithful fans that’d already been on it while I waited for Twi-dledum and Twi-dledee to get back. Heh.
I was going to go too, but at the last minute I just couldn’t deal. Beau and Lee were cool, though, and there wasn’t time for them to trip about it much, so they went and I stayed. It worked out just fine. I listened to the radio. (And watched this Swedish dude totally lose it because he missed the tour and then angrily try to convince the woman he was with that he was only mad ’cuz he wanted to go on the tour for his niece—back in Sweden—of course not for him! Har!) And, like I said, shared in the tale of the Holy Tour of Twilight with the devotees. So I scored.
As I wait for them I sit and read. I walk or run the engine when I get cold.
Pretty soon back they come. Beau is so cute when he’s happy. Like a little kid. He looks relaxed. I didn’t realize the trouble in his face till it left. Plus, he’s healing.
They both now have a bunch of Edward fan-aphanalia, as opposed to a more even distribution of all three throbs. I am forced to appreciate the awesomeness. So I do.
I also worry about their cash. Like, how much do they have, anyway? I’ve bought all the gas so far. Not to be douchey or anything. We haven’t talked about money. However, I’m pretty sure they are almost flat. I can’t bring myself to ask . . . so I haven’t said much.
Leonie is happy to have her cool Edward shirt, but I can tell she has a dark cloud over her. I repeat myself several times and finally confront her.
“Dude, what’s with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Unacceptable.”
“I’m okay. But I’m sad about that dog.”
Beau looks up like he was poked.
“I know. I�
�ve been thinking about her all day.”
“And her puppy . . .”
“I know.” Beau’s face is somber.
I try to stop them before they get sad.
“No! Listen, guys, you did good! They’ve probably been taken away from the puppy mill by now, and the puppy will have a good home because it must be cute, and the mom will be too, and soon she’ll belong to a nice couple who will love her, and it’s all going to be unicorns and kibbles over the rainbow!” I’m trying to get them to smile, but I can see they are thinking I’m just cold. They stare at me in silence.
“Rusty, do you or do you not care about what happens to that poor little dog?” Leo’s big turquoise eyes are again all wet and tragic.
“Oh, of course I do. I just don’t know what you want us to do! Should we go steal it and take it to the dog pound or something? Is that what you guys think? I’m not trying to be a butt, but is nobody going to be practical except me?”
They look at each other. Then Leonie looks down and sighs deeply.
“I guess not. They would probably just put her to sleep, anyway. There are a lot of dogs out there.” The corners of her mouth quiver and turn down as her voice breaks. I try again.
“Listen. Look at me. We are going to do something really cool now. We are going to see the ocean! I know you haven’t seen it, Beau, but have you, Lee?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s awesome in winter! It’s wild and huge and stormy and off the hook!”
They look at each other. Then shrug.
But that’s all the encouragement I need and we’re off.
I try to think how we can best do this as we leave the town of Twilight by twilight. It will not be the same to get there in the dark and then try to show Beau the ocean at night. It will not be Amazing.
Though if you’ve already seen the ocean and can imagine it when you hear the roar of the waves, nighttime is as cool as anytime. Just not for a first meeting.
I start driving slower as I try to figure this out. I guess we can just pull over and sleep and I can take them the rest of the way in the morning, but it’s only like dinnertime and we aren’t even tired.
Then I remember the cabins. Dad always said they were a pretty good deal. We’ll stay in the cabins.
When my dad used to live with us, he would take me and Paul to the ocean every summer and some winters. Mom didn’t go because they were already not that fond of each other, but we liked it. The cabins smelled like propane, and there was a bed in a loft I always got because I was the only girl. Paul and Dad slept in the bigger bed downstairs. There was light and a hot plate, running water, a shower, and a toilet. And that’s about all. It was a fun time when we were kids.
I haven’t thought about the cabins in years, but now I wanted to go there.
The guy is different than when I was here last, but he’s really cool, and when he finds out I used to come here as a kid, he takes some money off the price of the cabin.
It’s still more than I hoped to spend. But at this point I almost don’t care. I want a shower. Immediately if not sooner.
It’s exactly the same since the last time I was here, the last summer before my dad left, except for the cabins, which have been fixed up. I turn on the faucet and do a test flush in the new bathroom, and it works way better than I remember. I go back outside and look around. The air is the same. The air is salty. I can hear the roar beckoning just over the beach bluff.
You can smell salt sea air in Seattle because we are on the Puget Sound, but it’s different on the actual coast. You can hear seagulls in Seattle, but they too are different on the actual coast.
It’s all more intense somehow. Bigger. It’s easy to feel epic at the ocean. To feel infinite.
We throw our stuff on the bed, and Beau climbs the ladder to the loft. We hear him exclaiming about the coolness. Leo climbs up, and they are sitting and reading the names that have been scratched into the wood walls. I climb up far enough to stick my head above the floor and see what they are doing, but I don’t stay. I know what’s up there. They’re the same walls. So cool.
I realize as I climb back down that I’m not as out of breath as usual. Running away is good cardio, apparently.
After we shop and eat mac and cheese on the hot plate and settle in for the night, I turn on my phone.
And when I turn on my phone, my friends, I expire from guilt.
My mom has called thirty-nine times. She has also texted me about ten times and she never texts. It takes her like an hour to hit reply, type “okay,” and then send it. These must have taken her all day.
I listen to the first part of her first message, which is angry. I go to the next one and the next. She gets more and more angry, like screaming, then she gets scared, which is worse, and by the end, she is cajoling and crying, and then in the last message there is only her quiet sobbing and some whispered Hail Marys for my safety under her breath.
I hang up and immediately text her: Im gud. Beaus gud 2. B hom soon. Lees here 2. LOV u. Sorry. Sorry. Xoxoxoxoxo.
Then I turn the phone back off.
Beau takes the loft, and Leonie and I have the bigger downstairs bed. During the night, I wake up and hear her thrashing and crying in her sleep. I shake her gently, and she mutters and stops. I float back to sleep.
The next morning I wake up when the light is still gray to the song of seagull screams. I look out the window, and it’s blowing and wet and a light rain is sleeting almost horizontally. Don’t care, don’t care!
Lee is still sound asleep, and I sneak out of bed. I climb the ladder to the loft and stick my head up to see if Beau’s awake.
He is.
“Let’s go see the ocean.”
He agrees, and we quietly leave the cabin after writing a note to Leo saying we were just over the little bluff along the path in front of the cottage and to come find us when she got up if we weren’t back yet.
I follow the sound of the surf. The ocean is just out of view, but the salt air is so thick you taste it on your lips. The crash of the invisible water just ahead is like the rhythmic breathing of some immortal animal—never stopping, always stirring—and it is calling me, and I answer, scrambling faster and faster till I hear Beau, some distance behind me, telling me to wait up.
I do. I stop, panting, just behind the rise of the bluff and wait for him. Then together we walk over the crest of the sandy hill.
Even if you have seen the Pacific Ocean a million times before, it takes your breath away. Especially in winter when it’s only die-hard wetsuit surfers and seagulls and nobody else. It’s violent and endless, and the waves rock in a surging, muddy rage and roll till they deplete, till they are nothing but the laciest white foam to ever tickle a girl’s toes.
I take off my shoes. Beau stands staring, amazed at the sight.
“Wow,” breathes Beau. “It’s so”—he searches for the word—“real.”
And it is. Water rules the horizon to eternity.
I pull off my socks. Let the games begin.
“Aaahhhhhhhh!” I scream and run down the path. Onto the beach, landing flat-footed for maximum splat, I race across the smooth surface, leaving fleeting footprints in the surf.
Arms outstretched, embracing the eternal wind. Here I am forever. I am falling. I am free.
I am forever free-falling.
I look back, and Beau has approached the edge of the water. The salty wind whips his hair. He’s just standing and looking, mesmerized.
I understand. I was also awestruck the first time. Now it’s a reunion.
But first things first; I walk over to him.
“Beau, the Pacific Ocean. Your majesty, this is Beau.” Bowing, I make the introductions.
Then I splash him.
“You are now an official West Coaster. Welcome to the Pacific Rim! Welcome home, Lucky of the Left Coast!”
The ocean has a very energizing effect on me. I jump and splash. Very bracing.
I do a cartwheel, but when I
do, my hoodie rides up over my gut and I feel my huge flub hanging out in the cold wind. Mortified, I jump upright and shove my shirt down, but I know Beau saw. When I glance over, I see him turning his face so I won’t think he saw, but he did. He’s just being cool. Then he sees me seeing him pretending, and shrugs, like “So what?” He beams at me, then holds his face and arms up to the wind.
I feel a sudden stab of love for him. He is kind beyond his years.
We climb on beached driftwood logs far bigger than the trees we saw in the trucks on the road. We walk along their horizontal spines like trails and jump from one fallen giant to another. We sit within them, where the rain can’t rot, nor doth rust corrupt, and rest.
“Have we gone far?”
“No. We left my shoes back there by the trail head. See?”
“Oh. Yeah. It seems like we ran a lot farther.”
“Because we were running on sand. It’s super tiring. Plus, you’re still getting better.”
We continue resting. The sky is gray, and it’s as light as it’s going to be at the beach in December. It’s cold.
“Let’s go get Leonie and get started,” I say.
He doesn’t respond, and I see in his eyes that he’s a thousand miles away. Or two hundred, anyway.
“Beau?”
He looks at me. I see him thinking.
“What’s today?” he asks.
“Today is . . . the seventeenth?”
“Winter break hasn’t started yet.”
“Nope. It starts the twenty-sumpin’ this year.”
“Are you sorry?”
“What, that I came with? Do I look sorry?” I screw my face into a truly hideous grimace. Then I try for a pensive yet snotty look, like Bella.
He laughs, and we pull each other up and brush the sand off and walk back to the cabin.
To the empty cabin.
We look at each other.
“What the . . . ?” Beau’s face is disbelieving. “She’s not in the loft. What happened?”
I look. The comforter and pillow are here.
Beau, Lee, The Bomb Page 8
