No Right Turn

by Terry Trueman

  DEDICATION

  This one’s for

  George and Pauly—great, great men,

  but bad, bad boys!!

  And for my father,

  Sydney McDaniel Trueman

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Three Years ago …

  Now, Three Years Later

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Q&A with Terry Trueman

  Excerpt from Life Happens Next

  Other Works

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  THREE YEARS AGO …

  I heard the gunshot and I knew what had happened. Even before I made it downstairs to Dad’s office, I knew what he’d done.

  The last time I ever talked to my dad, I didn’t know it was going to be the last time, and I’ve wondered a million times since then if he knew.

  I’d just gotten home from school; I was thirteen years old. Mom was still at work, and Dad was sitting in his office at our house, moving some papers around on his desk.

  “Hey, Jordan,” he said.

  I answered, “Hi, Dad.”

  Then, out of the blue, Dad said, “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. I didn’t know what to say back.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Dad said, and kind of smiled.

  He took a couple deep slow breaths and then said, in a low, calm voice, “It’s all such bullshit.”

  I’ve thought about that a hundred times. It’s so ironic that my dad, who was always so careful about not swearing in front of me, would leave me with that word; the last word he ever said to me: bullshit. It was only the second time I’d ever heard him say it.

  A couple hours after we’d talked, I was in my room and he was still in his office. The shot wasn’t that loud, really, just one pop, not even as loud as a big firecracker, but I knew instantly what it was, and I ran downstairs.

  My father was there in his same chair, at his desk, slumped over, the gun still in his hand.

  I could smell the gunpowder, a stink in the air, and see a haze of smoke over the top of Dad, like a little blue cloud.

  I ran over to him. His face had a quiet look. I could see where he’d put the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a little black-and-red hole, small and horrible. I wanted to be sick.

  I grabbed the phone on his desk and looked away from him so I could concentrate. I dialed for help.

  “Nine-one-one. Please state your emergency.”

  “My dad shot himself.”

  “What is your location and who am I speaking to?”

  It was like a TV show or a movie. We went back and forth, and it didn’t even seem real until I looked at Dad again. “He’s not breathing. I want to try CPR.”

  The lady on the phone said, “That’s fine—you go ahead and I’ll send help right away. Leave the phone off the hook, and if you need me I’ll be right here, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I set the phone down and stood close to Dad. I honestly don’t remember how I managed to get him out of the chair and onto the floor, but I did it. There was a lot of blood, but the bullet hole had stopped bleeding already; I wiped some blood away, but there was no blood on the front of his face or around his mouth.

  I hadn’t ever had any CPR training, but I’d seen it done on TV before, so I pinched Dad’s nose and blew air into his mouth. I just kept blowing over and over again. His chest and belly kept rising and falling. I tried not to think about what I was doing. I tried to pretend that he was going to be all right, but the truth was that he’d shot himself in the head.

  I knew my dad was dead, and that what I was doing couldn’t save him, but I kept blowing air into his mouth anyway. It was like I was trying to keep him from leaving, even though he was already gone.

  It’s hard to remember it all now—hard because it was so horrible. I was shaking and crying, trying not to throw up. Not wanting to look at Dad, hating him for what he’d done but wishing I could save him.... I don’t know. You try to forget something like that, you hate remembering it, but it keeps coming back in nightmares; it keeps coming back other times too; it never really leaves your mind.

  It felt like a long time before I finally heard sirens and then a lot longer before the firemen and the cops all came running into our house.

  Lots of kids at school didn’t have a dad in their lives anymore. That wasn’t what you’d call a real exclusive club—but having your old man blow his brains out in the den when he knew you were the only other person in the house—having him not care enough about you to wait until some other time or maybe not even do it at all—well, I wasn’t going to find anybody else whose dad hated them enough to do something like that. I know that sounds harsh, but that’s how I see it—Dad waited until I was there, all alone with him, then shot himself—great, huh?

  I left the football team the week after Dad died. I didn’t say anything to the coach or anybody else—I just stopped going to practice, then I quit. I couldn’t face my teammates. Football is a game for tough guys, and I’d been a pretty good first-string wide receiver, but I wasn’t tough anymore. Somehow, I wasn’t … anything … just a loser with a dead father. I felt embarrassed and humiliated.

  “Hey, James.” Our team captain, Joey Mender, called to me in the hallway; we always called each other by our last names. I was trying to look invisible, standing at my locker.

  I ignored him, and he called to me again as he walked toward me. “Jordan, hey man, what’s up?”

  I looked at him and shrugged my shoulders.

  “Sorry about your dad,” he said more softly. “Really, I’m sorry.” He hesitated a second and kept standing there. I glanced at him, then away, real quick. What else was there to say? Nothing …

  Joey finally tried, “The truth is, we could sure use your help against Salk this Friday.”

  He meant our upcoming game. I spoke softly. “I’m off the team.”

  “I know. I was just saying—”

  I interrupted him. “I’m off. Period.”

  I slammed my locker and turned my back on him, walking away. Joey was a good guy, but there was nothing left to talk about. There was nothing left to say to anybody. All I wanted was to be alone. What could anybody say to me that would make anything any better? Nothing! What could I say to anybody that would make up for what had happened? Less than nothing.

  My mom wanted to help me—she tried to get me to talk to her, but I refused. She had enough to deal with. After all, I’d lost my dad, but she’d lost her husband! There was nothing we could say to each other that would change what had happened, so I didn’t see any point in talking about it.

  At school I never spoke to anybody unless I had to, and then I always used the fewest words I could manage. It’s amazing how easy it is to lose all your friends when you don’t return their phone calls and you just ignore them. If you never look anyone in the eyes, if you never speak unless spoken to and then only in the quickest, most uninterested way, the fact is that you can become invisible, you can eventuall
y be all alone, which was what I wanted.

  I actually started to feel that maybe I was invisible until one morning when a couple kids from seventh grade walked by me. I didn’t even know them, but whenever I had to be around other kids, like in the hallway between classes, I’d go to my locker and stand facing the metal door. At first I’d pretend I was trying to work the combination lock, like maybe I’d forgotten the numbers. But after a while I’d just stand there facing the locker and being real quiet as all the other kids walked behind me, not knowing or caring that I was even there.

  “What’s with him?” one of the seventh grade guys asked the other kid, kind of whispering.

  The second kid answered, not even bothering to lower his voice, “His dad killed himself and he got all messed up.”

  “How?”

  The louder kid laughed. “Whaddya mean, how? Look at him.... He’s a freakin’ zombie!”

  They both laughed and kept on walking.

  Even though they were just seventh graders, I felt scared to look up at them, ashamed, I guess. I felt my face get red and closed my eyes and tried to take a couple deep breaths. This was exactly what I knew everybody must be thinking: Hey, there’s that loser whose old man killed himself.... Hey, there’s the zombie!

  When I finally got the guts to open my eyes and turn slowly around, the hallway was filled with kids rushing past to get to their next classes—nobody was looking at me, nobody cared at all. The longer I stood there and looked at all the kids’ faces as they walked by, the more invisible I felt.

  Yep, I felt totally alone. But that was what I wanted.

  NOW, THREE YEARS LATER …

  I walk into the house after school and drop my junk by the door and start moving toward the kitchen.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I hear from the hallway that leads back to the bedrooms.

  I about jump out of my skin.

  “Mom, what are you doing home?” My mom’s a swing-shift nurse at St. Thomas Hospital, two in the afternoon till midnight, Monday through Thursday; she’s never home at this time of day.

  She laughs, walking into the hallway from her bedroom. “Well, it’s nice to see you, too.”

  I say, “I’m just surprised you’re here—of course, now I’ll have to tell all the guys on the way over with the babes and drugs that the rave is off for today, but, you know, it’s your house, too....”

  “Babes and drugs, huh?” Mom laughs. “Good, at least you’re not wasting your time on any foolishness like studying.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, “you got that right.”

  Mom punches me in the arm pretty hard—she’s got a good straight right.

  In the three years since Dad died, things have just barely started to become normal … not normal, really. A better word would be “predictable.” And we’re doing okay—I guess we’re kind of getting used to our lives. I didn’t think that would ever happen again.

  Mom follows me through the living room and into the kitchen.

  She asks, “So how was school?”

  I shrug, but I catch something strange in the sound of her voice. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well these past three years—after all, she’s almost the only person I ever talk to—so I can tell that something is up with her. I decide to just wait her out.

  It doesn’t take long.

  “You know Don Lugar?” she asks.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Lugar, the man who bought the Andersons’ house?”

  Now I know. I get a weird feeling; the hair on the back of my neck stands up. “What about him?” I try not to sound as creeped out or look as uncomfortable as I really feel.

  Apparently hiding my feelings works, because Mom says, “Well, he’s asked me to go out to a movie this Friday.”

  She waits for me to say something. I’m shocked, really, and I can’t think of anything at all. I draw a total blank, so I stupidly mutter, “What movie?”

  She kind of smiles and says, “We’re not sure yet—we’re going to discuss it.”

  I think to myself, We’re, huh? You and your new boyfriend? I also think, You couldn’t keep your last husband alive. What makes you sure you’ll do any better this time? Even as I think this, I know it’s unfair—maybe not totally unfair, but at least pretty shitty.

  Mom, not smiling now, her voice kind of soft and serious, asks, “Are you okay with that?”

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  Mom looks into my eyes and asks, “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” I say again, kind of impatiently. What’s she want from me—a seal of approval?

  The fact is that it wasn’t Mom who was here when Dad killed himself; it wasn’t Mom who had to deal with that. Nope. Dad made sure that was a special treat, just for me!

  It’s Friday night, and I’m trying not to stare out the front window of our house. Don Lugar was supposed to be here at six o’clock to pick Mom up, and it’s already six oh three, so I’m feeling kind of good that he’s late, when suddenly I see, down the street where he lives, his classic Corvette Stingray backing out of his driveway and cruising slowly up Northridge Road to our house.

  I stand back a little, out of sight. Once he stops in our driveway, he climbs out of the ’Vette and walks up to our front door.

  He rings the doorbell and Mom hollers down to me from her bedroom, “Jordan, will you get the door, please?”

  What am I, the butler? I quietly duck down the hallway and into my room, pretending I didn’t hear her.

  The doorbell rings again, and I hear Mom hurry out of her room and down the hall.

  She opens the door and says, “Hi.” I can actually hear the smile in her voice.

  Don Lugar says, “Hi,” then, “Sorry I’m late.”

  I glance at my watch. Late? It’s only five minutes after six. What a dork!

  They speak quietly for a moment or two, and then I hear them both laugh. From my bedroom I glance out the window at the Corvette.

  “Jordan!” I hear Mom call me.

  I don’t answer; then I hear her walking toward me. “Jordan!” she calls again, louder.

  There’s no escaping. “Yeah,” I answer.

  Mom says, “Come here, please.”

  I walk out of my bedroom and down the hallway. It’s greet-the-new-boyfriend time—great!

  “Honey,” Mom says, “I’d like you to meet Don Lugar.”

  He’s standing there looking at me. By his expression I’m guessing that he’s as uncomfortable as I am.

  “Hey,” I say, offering my hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Jordan,” he says, shaking my hand firmly. “Your mom’s told me quite a bit about you.”

  I almost burst out laughing. What could she have told him? There’s absolutely nothing to tell. I’d like to blurt out an imitation of what Mom must have said: “My son is a freakin’ zombie: no friends, no interests, no life, you’re gonna love him!”

  But instead I just say, “Nice to meet you, too.”

  There’s an awkward pause. Just to break the silence I say, “Nice ’Vette.”

  Don smiles and says, “Thanks.”

  Mom smiles too.

  I try to smile, but it’s pretty phony—this whole scene is just so weird. Don says, “Drop by sometime and I’ll show you the car, take you for a ride.”

  I say to myself, Are you trying a little too hard, mister? But I say out loud, “Sure, that’d be cool.”

  It’ll be a cold day in hell before I’d go hang out with Mom’s new little pal. It may be I’m pathetic, I am pathetic, but I refuse to believe that I’m that pathetic....

  We hem and haw for another few uncomfortable moments. I notice that Mom looks really nice. She’s wearing a black silk blouse tucked into her tight black jeans. She has on boots with tall heels, giving her an extra couple inches. Her makeup in the light of the hallway makes her look young, and most of all, she has a perma-grin. She’s really happy. I haven’t seen her smile like this in a long time.

  I have mixed feelings. I’m glad for he
r in one way—it’s good to see her so excited—but it’s like I don’t know why she gets to go out and be happy all of a sudden. I mean, just like that, her life is back to normal? I’m being a jerk, I know, but I don’t get any of this.

  Finally Don says to me, “Well, we won’t be late.” Like he’s checking in with me for permission and like I’m the parent.

  I don’t know what else to say, so I speak in a deep voice. “All right, you kids have a good time now, but drive carefully.”

  It’s kind of a lame joke, and they both laugh way too hard.

  It’s a relief when they finally walk out the door. The second they’re gone, I race back down the hallway to my bedroom and peek out just in time to see Don open the passenger door and Mom, kind of awkwardly, slip into the car. Then Don walks around to the driver’s side and hops in too. The car’s windows are tinted dark, and I can’t see in very well. He fires up the engine; it has a pretty decent roar. They back out and take off.

  I decide right away that he’s an idiot and that I’m not going to like him. Period.

  Cool car, though.

  ONE

  I’m walking home from school after getting off the bus. It’s the following Tuesday, and I go past Don Lugar’s house. In his driveway he’s polishing the Stingray. I’ve never been a gearhead, never cared that much about cars. It’s not like Mom and I have had thousands of extra bucks to burn on anything. So cars have never been that big a deal to me, and big-boy toys like Corvette Stingrays are about as realistic to me as … I don’t know … as nothing, they’re just something I know I’ll never have.

  My dad had always talked and acted like he hated muscle cars and cool classics—he called them “show-off cars.” Whenever we saw one on the road, he’d always say something about “what a waste of money” or he’d look at the driver, usually some middle-aged guy like himself, and mutter, “Grow up.”