No Right Turn

by Terry Trueman

  As the game has gone on, it’s gotten more and more exciting. My dad, who was a die-hard Mariners fan, has been getting more and more into it. Anyway, it’s a 3-and-2 count on the Mariners hitter, and the tying run is on third base. The Yankee pitcher delivers a fastball that looks way outside, but the umpire yells, “Steeee-rike!” Inning over. My dad jumps up from his seat like he’s just been hit by a jolt of electricity and yells really loud, “Bullshit!”

  In another couple seconds the entire crowd is booing at the ump, but in that moment before the loud booing starts, everybody in Safeco Field can hear my dad’s “Bullshit!” boom out. I look up at my dad, and he glances down at me, and then he sits down really fast. His face is red at first, but the next thing he turns kind of pale. I can tell that he’s really embarrassed about swearing in front of all these people. A minute or two later, while the crowd is still booing their heads off, Dad turns to me and says, just loud enough for me to hear, “You ready to go?”

  I’m more of a football fan than baseball anyway. Dad’s the baseball fanatic. Lots of times we leave games early and listen to the end on the radio so that we can beat the traffic, but there’s definitely something else going on this time—does Dad know that this is the last live ball game he’ll ever see? Is he afraid that somebody’s gonna come yell at him for cursing so loud at the ump? Whatever. The next thing I know, we’re moving down the aisle, then up the stairs to leave.

  In real life this is exactly what happened, just like I’m describing it.

  But in my dream things are different, things gets really weird. In the dream, right after Dad yells, “Bullshit!” a big guy sitting right in front of us—and when I say big I mean mostly fat, but also tall and kind of huge looking, almost like a giant—anyway, in the dream this guy, wearing a faded, beat-up Mariners cap, turns around and looks at my dad. There’s a tense moment of silence between them, and then the giant yells, “Right on!!” and raises his hand in the high-five gesture. My dad high-fives the guy, and then they both yell, “Bullshit!” together.

  Softly at first, but then really loud, all across the stadium, every voice starts yelling, “Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit! …” as loud as they can, over and over. The next thing I know, I’m standing with everybody else, and I’m yelling it too. I look at my dad and he looks back at me and he’s laughing, and we’re both yelling, “Bullshit!” over and over again—together.

  I’m yelling so hard, and feeling so happy, that I wake myself up, still laughing in my bed!

  But in another few seconds I’m fully awake. It’s really early, still dark outside. Don said he wanted to see me first thing, but I don’t think he had the middle of the night in mind.

  Now I lie here thinking about everything—tossing and turning and never sleeping for more than a few minutes, mostly remembering my bullshit dream.

  It’s 5:42 A.M. I close my eyes and pull my blankets over my head, but it’s hopeless; I can’t sleep.

  I can’t stop thinking about Don. Why would he protect me when I’ve screwed him over so bad? It makes me sick to think about it. I’ve been such a jerk. I feel horrible, not because I got caught, but because now Don knows what a selfish ass I’ve been. That bothers me—a lot!

  At 6:30 I get up. I know it’s too early, but lying here trying to sleep is making me crazy. I want to get this over with.

  I leave the house quietly so that I won’t wake up Mom.

  I ring Don’s doorbell. After a few seconds he answers. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a gray SPOKANE CORVETTE CLUB T-shirt, like the one he gave to me and I wore on my first date with Becka. I feel another rush of guilt, but I’m more embarrassed than anything else; my palms are sweaty and my heart pounds—my stomach is doing backflips.

  Don’s holding a cup of coffee, and his hair is kind of pushed up to one side, like he’s just gotten up.

  He says, “When I said first thing in the morning, I didn’t mean this early.”

  “I’m sorry. I can come back later.”

  “No,” Don says, “it’s all right. Come on in.”

  In all the time we’ve spent together over these last weeks, I’ve never actually been inside Don’s house before. We’ve always worked in his garage or driveway.

  I follow him through his entryway and into a living room—dining room area. He has nice things: A big dining room lies straight ahead, and to the left a living room with a large couch and a couple stuffed chairs. There’s a nice rug, the expensive Persian type, in the middle of the living room under a big glass-topped coffee table. The most striking part of the place is ceiling-to-floor windows and the panoramic view, from Mount Spokane on the north to the skyline of Spokane to the south.

  “Nice view,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Don answers, like he’s heard it before.

  He sits in a stuffed chair, and I sit on the couch.

  After a few seconds of awkward silence, I say, “Thanks for covering for me.”

  Don doesn’t say anything.

  I hesitate and then add, “I don’t know why you did it, but thanks, and I’m sorry, Don. It was a shitty thing to steal your car. I mean it, I’m really sorry.”

  Don laughs, not a big stupid laugh, more of a chuckle. It surprises me.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  Don, still smiling, says, “I was just thinking of the look on your face when you pulled into the driveway last night.”

  I try to smile, but I don’t see a lot of humor.

  Don adds, “You were so busted!”

  I frown and ask, “Why’d you help me?”

  He pauses, sips his coffee, and finally says, “Your mom told me about your dad before I even met you. I’m sorry about your father.”

  He’s never said a single word about my dad until this moment. But it’s okay—for some reason I’m glad that he knows.

  Don says, “Terrible things happen in life sometimes—things we can’t control. Good things happen, too, but really bad things sometimes. When your dad killed himself—your mom told me how you tried to save him.”

  I stare down at the floor and say, “Yeah, I guess—I did CPR, but it didn’t help.”

  Don asks, “How many kids, how many thirteen-year-old kids, would have the guts to do what you did?”

  I say, “It was stupid. It didn’t do any good!”

  Don’s quiet a second. “You’ve been thinking you’re some kind of a loser because of what happened with your dad. You’ve been thinking there was something wrong with you. Losing someone means you’ve lost someone, period—that’s all it means! It doesn’t make you a loser. What you don’t get is that you were a hero that day, Jordan. You’re still a hero in my book.”

  I blush and say, “What’s this got to do with me stealing your car?”

  Don smiles, not a big grin or anything, just a slight smile. “You’ve been through some horrible stuff. Let’s just say you’ve probably earned the right to a break or two in your life.”

  We’re quiet for a while, like the way we are sometimes when working on the ’Vette or just out for a ride, relaxed, not needing to say anything.

  Don finally says, “Besides, I like your mom a lot, Jordan; she’s a great woman. How would she feel if I sent you to the slammer?”

  I have to smile at this one too.

  Don says, “I’m not sure what the future holds for us, her and me, all of us—but I like you, too. You’re a friend, and I’m really glad you and your mom are in my life.”

  I don’t know what to say, but I feel the same way. Finally I mutter, “I like you, too, Don—even more than just because you didn’t have me arrested.”

  I know this sounds stupid, but Don smiles and nods.

  We’re silent again for a while.

  I suddenly remember back to one time my dad and I were riding into town and I’d said something about coincidences and Dad had laughed and said, “There are no coincidences.” I didn’t know what he meant back then, but suddenly some of the things Dad used to say are starting to make sen
se to me. I don’t know if that’s a bad or a good thing.

  I ask Don, “Did you know I was stealing the car?”

  He looks kind of pissed off for the first time since we started talking. “How many times have you taken it out?”

  I answer honestly, “About half a dozen … no, a few more than that, maybe more, maybe eight or nine times, usually on Wednesday nights when you were out of town.”

  Don stares at me. “If I’d known about it, I’d have stopped you. I’d have had to. I gotta admit, though, when I was a kid I might have had a little trouble resisting the temptation too.”

  He looks me in the eyes and says, “If you thought you could get rid of me just by stealing my car, sorry, but it won’t be that easy.”

  I feel my face go red. I look at him and think about everything that’s happened since we met. I say, “No, that wasn’t it; I just …” I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling. Tears come to my eyes, but I force myself to control my emotions. “Taking the car wasn’t about getting rid of you.... Ever since my dad died, right up until I met you and rode in the ’Vette that first time, things had been pretty bad. But since we met you, Mom and me, since then, it’s been a lot better.... I’ve never …” I pause and take a deep breath, “I mean, both Mom and I … My mom really likes you, Don....” I can’t find the right words, so finally I give up trying.

  But Don gets what I’m saying. He says, “I like your mom too, Jordan. I hope that’s okay with you. Sometimes in life we get second chances—and you deserve one, not just because you’re her kid, but because you’re a good guy.”

  He pauses, like he’s thinking for a few moments, then says, “You know, sometimes when you lose someone, only then do you realize how little you knew them—I mean, it’s only after they’re gone that you think of the million things you maybe never said....”

  He stops talking.

  But I think about his words. Finally I say, “After Dad died, I found all these books and magazines in his desk, all these things about cool stuff and risky adventure crap like skydiving and hang gliding, stuff he’d never really do—it was weird, ’cause Dad never took risks at all.”

  Don says softly, “Everyone has his secrets, Jordan—everyone. Maybe for your dad, risks were dreams to him. I don’t know, of course. I never knew him.” He pauses again; then, “But I think that a huge part of loving people is simply trying to know them.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, thinking about my dad: A million things I could have said; a million things I’ll never get to say—

  Don interrupts my thoughts. “Whatever your dad felt, Jordan, I have a pretty good idea how much you love the Corvette, so if your mom says it’s all right, I’m willing to let you borrow it and drive it if you want.”

  I have to look at him to be sure I’m hearing him right.

  Don smiles, then quickly adds, “There’s a few conditions. First off, you’ve got ninety days to think about what you’ve done, ‘borrowing’ the car without permission—call it probation. After ninety days, if your mom agrees, I’ll let you use the car. But here’s the deal: When you drive it, you have to drive carefully, and if you ever get pulled over, you stop immediately. You have to promise that you’ll never use the nitrous unless I’m with you and I say you can. And never drink any alcohol or do any drugs when you’re driving, not just the ’Vette, but any car—if I hear that you’ve been drinking and driving, that’ll be the last time you use the Stingray. Fair enough?”

  I don’t have to think about it long. “Sure!” Then I ask, “Are you going to tell my mom about all of this?”

  Don says, “No.” He pauses and stares at me, then adds, “But don’t you think maybe you should tell her?” He hesitates a second. “I think there’s a few things you two need to talk about.”

  “Yeah,” I say, not sure exactly what he means or why I’m feeling such a mix of good and scared feelings.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mom’s up and has poured her coffee. I take a deep breath and come out of my room and sit with her at the kitchen table.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  I say, “So far, but the day is young....”

  This is kind of an old family joke, something she and Dad used to say to each other when they had bad news to discuss.

  My tone of voice must give away that I need to talk too, because Mom looks up, staring straight into my eyes, and asks, “What’s going on?”

  “I have to tell you some stuff.”

  Mom says, “Okay.”

  When I’m done with explaining about stealing the ’Vette and Don saving my ass from the cops, I pause and wait for her to react.

  Mom takes a sip of coffee and is quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, she says in a low, careful voice, “Your dad was sick, Jordan.”

  I look away from her. This wasn’t what I expected—nothing about grounding me, or how stupid I’ve been.

  “Listen to me, honey, this has to be said now!” she says. “Your dad was terribly sick.”

  Honestly wanting to know, needing to know, I ask, “What does that mean? Sick how? Cancer? Lou Gehrig’s disease?”

  My stomach flip-flops and my hands start to shake.

  Mom says quietly, “No, Jordan, not that kind of sick. Your dad was clinically depressed, and he had been for years. He’d gone off his medicine, and he was in terrible emotional pain.”

  “But he must have hated me! He killed himself when we were all alone. He knew I’d find him, he knew!”

  Mom says softly, “He wasn’t thinking about you or me when he did it, Jordan. It wasn’t about us—it was about him needing to escape his suffering.”

  My chest feels real tight; I’m struggling to catch my breath.

  Mom says, “Listen, Jordan, it wasn’t about us, it wasn’t about you! We’ve avoided this for a long time, and I’ve let us avoid it, but it’s something we have to talk about!”

  I know what she’s saying—it makes total sense. It’s kind of like what Don told me—things happen, both good and bad things, and we can’t control them all.

  Mom gets up and comes around the table and kisses my cheek and hugs me.

  She sits back down and sips her coffee.

  I say, “I thought that Dad must have hated me.”

  “I know, Jordan, but he didn’t—I know he loved you.”

  “But he killed himself when we were here alone. He knew I’d find him, he knew that I’d—”

  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I feel this huge sob come out of me. My voice breaks, and I can’t say another word. I cry and cry, burying my face in my arms as I collapse onto the kitchen table. I’m sobbing too hard to go on. My chest aches and snot pours from my nose. My throat feels incredibly tight. I want to throw up and fall to the floor and just die. I’ve never felt so sad, so terrible. A hundred pictures of my dad rush through my head, a thousand pictures of him: laughing, angry, quiet … dead....

  Mom comes over and pulls her chair close to mine and wraps her arms around me. More snot pours out of my nose and drips down, my face feels hot, and I can feel sweat dripping down my sides—but I can’t stop crying, I can’t stop, and suddenly I realize that I don’t want to stop—it feels like everything horrible I’ve ever felt is pouring out of me. I know this sounds weird, but as bad as this feels, it feels good, too. I can’t explain it—but I don’t need to, words won’t help me anyway—I’m crying so hard I have to fight to catch a breath.

  All I can think is that it feels amazingly good to get all my tears out.

  “Dad loved me,” I say when I’m finally able to talk again.

  “He loved us both, Jordan.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” I say, not really asking.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You know the last word he ever said to me?”

  Mom looks at me curiously. “What?”

  “He said, ‘bullshit.’ He said, ‘It’s all such bullshit.’”

  Her eyes fill with tears. “I’m sure that’s how it felt to him t
hat day—lots of days he must have felt like that.”

  I say, “But he wasn’t saying that I’m bullshit.... He wasn’t saying that.”

  “No, Jordan—I promise you that he didn’t mean you. He loved you.”

  I nod. I know deep down that what she’s saying is true.

  “I loved him, too,” I say. “I still do.”

  “Me too,” Mom says.

  And for the next three hours Mom and I remember Dad together, not just the end, not just that last day, but everything else—sometimes we cry, more often we laugh and smile. My dad died, he killed himself because he was sick—but now he’s alive again in Mom’s memories and mine—he’s back with us where he belongs—in our hearts; in some way I can’t explain, I know that my dad is back.

  Even though at the end of our talk I feel amazingly good, Mom still adds her own ninety-day sentence to Don’s probation.

  “You’re restricted, house arrest, for the next three months.”

  I nod. I can handle that. Right now I could handle anything.

  Mom’s given me permission to take care of one final thing before my punishment begins—something Mom knows that I have to do.

  Becka hangs up on me twice before I can even get a word in.

  But the third time I phone, she answers, real mad, “Stop calling me!”

  I say, “I will, I promise, if you’ll just let me explain.”

  “There’s nothing you can say that makes what you did okay!”

  “I know, Becka, you’re right. If you’ll let me talk to you for ten minutes, I promise I’ll never call you again if you don’t want me to.”

  There’s a long silence; then Becka says, “Not on the phone … and not in the Corvette!”

  I smile to myself. Not in the ’Vette, huh? She’s got that right! I say, “I’ll come by in Mom’s Honda.”

  Becka says, still mad sounding, “I’ll be waiting.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Then Becka says, “Ten minutes.”

  I say, “That’s all I’m asking for.”

  We sit in Mom’s Honda at Arlington Park. I’m ready.