The Road to You

by Brant, Marilyn

  I could scarcely keep myself from grimacing when he said, “Okay. I’ll meet you by the movie theater on Friday night. Try not to get yourself into any trouble before then.”

  “No one ever suspects me of getting into trouble,” I shot back and had the satisfaction of seeing him squint at me for a second in consideration.

  “Well, then, I guess people are underestimating you, Aurora.” He grinned. “I’m not that dumb. Or, at least, not as dumb as you think.” He got out of his car, slammed the door behind him and walked toward the office. “Go home,” he said over his shoulder. “Talk to your parents. We’re not going anywhere unless they say it’s okay.”

  He didn’t even turn back to wave. But I didn’t need to get in the last word. I’d accomplished two out of my three missions for the week. Dale—check. Donovan—check. Only one more to go.

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT, it was finally time for that conversation with my parents. I presented the idea to them casually, over a dinner I’d made of beef stew and Bisquick rolls.

  “So, Donovan and I got to talking this week, and we both thought it’d probably be a good idea to take a look at a few colleges. We haven’t seen many, and—”

  “I always thought you wanted to go to school up here when you were ready for it,” Mom said, instantly defensive. “In the Twin Cities. We’ve already shown you that campus.”

  And they had. With Gideon, during the fall of his senior year, in an unsuccessful attempt to convince him to apply to college.

  “Oh, I know,” I said, using my most soothing voice. “I guess, after hearing Betsy talk about it at the party over the weekend, I just wondered about some other places nearby. U of M still seems the best, but I just want to make sure, you know? I never even questioned it.”

  This happened to be one-hundred-percent true, so I was positive my delivery held the ring of sincerity, but my mother had that ever-present look of concern on her face, and I could see flashes of pain in her eyes at the memories of Gideon that such talk of university campuses always dredged up. One of the million reasons why I’d let my college plans drop away after my brother disappeared. And why my high-school graduation two weeks ago was an obligatory formality, not remotely like a celebration.

  “How long will you be gone?” Mom asked, focusing on the time element only and not on the person I’d be traveling with. This was an encouraging oversight.

  “A week, maybe,” I said. “Hey, would anyone like more stew?” I lifted the ladle and smiled at my parents.

  My mother put her spoon down and blinked. “A week?”

  And my father, who’d been studying the chunks of vegetables and meat in his bowl with mild interest until then, finally spoke up. “I’ll take you to the other colleges. Which ones do you want to go to?”

  For a second, I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t anticipated my dad suggesting he’d take me himself.

  “Oh, no, Dad. That’d be too much time away from work for you. I want to see a couple of schools in Wisconsin, Illinois and Iowa. And I have to visit on weekdays when the admissions offices are open. It’s not a problem for Donovan to take me. He’s already going, and I—”

  “You’re not traveling around half the Midwest with a boy,” my father stated. “I should have a few days of vacation time. You and I can go in the next week or two.”

  “But that’s unnecessary,” I insisted. “Donovan is already going. He’s leaving this weekend, and he wants to see a lot of the same colleges that I do. It would be silly to waste gas and your vacation days when we don’t need to. Plus, you know him. You know his family. He’s not some dangerous stranger.”

  “Where, exactly, will you be sleeping while you’re on this trip?” Dad crossed his arms and stared at me. “At a campground? In some cheap motel? In Donovan’s car?” He shook his head as if trying to dismiss the image this thought created. “No. It’s not safe.”

  “A lot of the universities have inexpensive housing nearby. There are motels that are almost like youth hostels and small bed-and-breakfast inns that are practically on campus. I’ll make sure we’re somewhere safe. You don’t have to worry.”

  My dad pushed himself to standing. “I don’t have to worry?” He tossed his napkin on his chair and stepped away from the table. “We’ve already lost one child. We’re not losing another. The answer is no.”

  Before I could stop him, my father marched out of the room. In the distance I heard the TV being flipped on and the end of the “CBS Evening News” broadcast. Walter Cronkite was saying, “And that’s the way it is June 14, 1978,” and my dad was saying nothing at all. He was, however, making a racket picking up and crumpling old newspapers, something he did when he was agitated.

  My mom had that haunted expression on her face, staring down at what remained of her stew, as if looking into a very murky crystal ball. I could sense her pain tangling with her feelings of guilt. Not just over Gideon, but over me, too. Remembering all the things I hadn’t gotten to do because we’d lost my brother.

  “Maybe...you should go,” Mom murmured, not meeting my eye but talking to me just the same. “It would probably be good for you to see some new colleges.” She put her elbow on the table and rested her head in her palm, closing her eyes. Almost unwilling, it seemed, to let our gazes meet for fear she’d change her mind. “We’ve known Donovan for years. He’s not a wild boy,” my mom added. “He’ll be responsible, won’t he?”

  “Yes,” I answered very truthfully. “He will.” And though I didn’t say this aloud, to myself I added, That’s because he’s not a boy. He’s a man. And that makes a world of difference.

  “I can talk with your father about it later,” my mother said.

  I went over to hug her. “Thanks, Mom.”

  But, once I’d put the leftovers away and washed the dishes (Mom had gone to lay down for a while), I found my dad alone, sitting in a living room devoid of newspapers, and staring at a few family photographs on the wall. The TV was a low hum in the background, and he was clearly not watching it.

  I sat down on the sofa near him and stared at the pictures, too. There were framed photos of when Gideon and I had been babies, then preschoolers, then high-school students. Black and white snapshots—one of our mom perched on a wooden swing and one of our dad in his Marine blues from his days in the service. Pride and duty shown in his eyes. A large picture of our parents on their wedding day. And another of the four of us from Christmas 1975.

  All happier times.

  “Dad, I’m going to be eighteen in just a few weeks,” I said. “I know you’re worried about this trip, and I can understand that, but you don’t have to be. I’m not one of those hippy types. I’m not going to be taking chances. And Donovan is very careful. He’s been trained in the military. I’ll be safe with him.”

  “You’d be safer at home,” my father whispered.

  I nodded. That was true. I wouldn’t deny it.

  “Is there something going on between you and this boy?” he asked. “I know you both share a…tragedy. But is there anything else? Anything I should know about?”

  “No. It’s not like that.” Also, regrettably, true. “We just—we just have a common goal.”

  My father took a deep breath. “Well, then, we could invite him along with us. He could be our guest, and the three of us could go look at colleges together.”

  I smothered a sigh. This wasn’t working like it was supposed to. I’d known from the beginning that my mom would need some reassurance. I hadn’t realized my dad, being the good man he was, would need far more than that.

  “Dad, please listen to what I’m saying.” I waited until my father nodded and, slowly, turned his head to face me. “It’s important that Donovan and I go on this trip alone.” I met his gaze and held it.

  And my dad, who had a touch of heightened perceptiveness about him—even if it wasn’t so strong a trait as mine and even if he rarely chose to harness it—got a glint of curiosity in his eye that I hadn’t seen for years. For two years, to be exa
ct. “Why?” he asked.

  I paused and inhaled a few times. It was critical that I explained this right.

  “There’s really only one thing Donovan and I have in common…and it isn’t college plans,” I said, taking a chance that honesty was my only hope in getting him to really loosen his grip. “Only one thing we both desperately want to know. One. And, Dad, you know what it is.”

  I watched as my father’s facial expression slid into something odd and almost indecipherable. He glanced at Gideon’s graduation photo, then over at me, then back at the wall of pictures again. Dad’s eyes focused on my brother’s easygoing smile and, under his chin, his strong fingers carefully curled—hiding the grease-stained nails in his fist while the ruby-and-gold graduation ring flashed outward to the world.

  “You know something new about them?” he whispered. “Your brother and his friend? You have a hint about why they left?”

  I didn’t want to answer this. Didn’t want to raise hope if I couldn’t be sure. But, in many ways, my father’s intuition had just moved beyond his need for me to supply the words. There was a watery glaze to his eyes and a battle on his face between belief and fear, hopefulness and despair.

  “I love you, Dad,” I said instead. “Donovan and I are going to find out for all of us whatever answers we can.”

  After that, he didn’t say anything more about it. Didn’t argue or try to talk me out of leaving. He just murmured, “Do you need money? Anything?”

  I shook my head and moved to hug him.

  He tugged me toward him and held me tight, pulling me into his arms like when I was a toddler. I could smell the scent of his pipe on his clothing. I could hear his heartbeat through his thin shirt. And I could feel his tears on the side of my cheek. They mingled with my own.

  ON FRIDAY night, as I sat next to Betsy in our town’s packed little cinema and watched cartoon animations of the cast sing, dance and proclaim that “Grease” was the word, there were two thoughts that kept running through my mind, hindering my ability to concentrate on the movie:

  One, I needed to remember to pack a few more snapshots of Gideon and Jeremy. The photo I’d taken of them to Crescent Cove was okay, but I knew I could find better images.

  And, two, what was Donovan doing three rows behind me…and who the hell was he sitting with?

  I’d expected to see him outside of the theater. On the sidewalk. Not inside, watching John Travolta flirt with Olivia Newton-John. And most especially not rumbling with laughter at some of the racy lyrics to “Greased Lightning” while the shrill giggles of the girl he was with distracted half the audience.

  Then again, maybe I was the only one distracted by her. Betsy didn’t seem to have a problem paying attention to the film.

  My friend elbowed me. “I don’t see why anyone would like that mean Crater Face dude. Not even Cha-Cha.” On the screen, good-guy Kenickie was getting ready to race the bad Scorpion leader for their cars’ pink slips. “He’s sort of evil looking, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  But, a few minutes later, when Kenickie got knocked out and Danny Zuko, John Travolta’s character, was doing the racing, I found myself really liking that nasty metal-and-tire-cutting attachment on the bad guy’s fast car. I fantasized about using something like that on the wheels of Donovan’s Trans Am if he couldn’t get that girl he was with to shut up.

  Second choice was to pelt a few Milk Duds at her. I peeked inside my box of candy. Still had about four or five hard caramel-chocolate balls left.

  Thankfully, the film finally ended and, when the houselights came up, I turned to get a good look at this person Donovan had brought along. She was tall—nearly the same height as him—blondish and, from the frequency of her laughter, easily amused.

  I narrowed my eyes when I saw him put his arm around the blonde, grin and whisper something that made the other girl absolutely hoot at the hilarity of it.

  Betsy nudged me. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  I nodded my head in Donovan’s direction. “Okay, but I have to talk with him for a minute before we get out of here.”

  My friend shot me a sideways glance. “With Donovan McCafferty? Why?”

  I tried to explain in a couple of short sentences about how he and I were trekking to visit a few colleges together. “I just need to double check the time we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Betsy smirked at the display of lovey-dovey affection going on right in front of us as half the population of Chameleon Lake marched passed us and out of the theater. “Well, I’d ask you if something was going on between the two of you, enough so that he’s driving you to a bunch of different campuses, but I think he’s got his hands full already.”

  And in that second, I saw Donovan checking out the number of residents who’d walked down the aisle to the exit, marking the people who’d already seen him and the blonde together and had surely tagged them as a serious couple. He raised an eyebrow at me quickly and then turned his attention to his girlfriend of the night, saying something else that seemed overly intimate for the setting.

  Which, of course, was exactly his intention.

  But, even though I sensed he’d set this all up on my behalf—so there’d be no malicious gossip about us while we were gone, no more relationship questions from my friends or my parents—I was irritated by it. And even when the four of us had finally walked out and were standing face to face in the lobby, I still couldn’t shake it.

  “I really wouldn’t have pegged you as a Travolta fan,” I told him with mock sweetness. “I’ll have to remember to bring my ‘Saturday Night Fever’ cassette along for the trip. We can listen to some disco on the drive.”

  He pulled the blonde—whom he’d introduced to us as “Vicky from St. Cloud”—closer to him and laughed. But I could hear the steel in his voice when he said, “You young girls…always so into silly fads.”

  I glared at him. I’d had more than enough of that young girl crap.

  Before I could say anything in return, Donovan added, “So, about tomorrow, is eight a.m. too early for you? The sooner we hit the road, the sooner we can come back.” He sent Vicky a look of longing that made me want to puke.

  “Eight in the morning is just fine,” I stated. “I’ll be ready even earlier than that, but, you know—” I feigned a shrug. “I’m not going to be up very late tonight.”

  He waited to make a face at me until Betsy and Vicky were both looking elsewhere. A junior-high kid had spilled what remained of his buttered popcorn on the red carpet, and the knowing glance Donovan gave me during that temporary distraction left me with little doubt that he sensed my jealousy. And I was jealous. Maybe it was stupid, but I couldn’t help how I felt.

  “Well, we should get going.” He squeezed Vicky’s shoulder, and she nuzzled up to him. “Bye, Betsy,” he said. “Aurora, g’night. See you tomorrow.”

  We waved them off—a braided ribbon of anxiety, frustration and something else churning deep inside my gut. I did, at least, have the satisfaction of hearing Vicky say to Donovan as they walked away, “Do you really think disco is a fad?”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Donovan was the living antithesis of anything remotely “disco,” which meant I knew just how to make him suffer on the trip for taunting me so much tonight. I was in possession of several Bee Gees cassettes and, oh, I wasn’t kidding about bringing them along.

  “Do you have time to get a milkshake at Rudy’s tonight, or do you still have some packing to do?” my friend asked me.

  “There are just a couple other things I have to still add in,” I said. Photos of our brothers. Tire-slashing tools. Bee Gees music. “But I can do that right before bed. It’ll be fun to talk about the movie for an hour.”

  Betsy grinned at me. “It was great, wasn’t it? I wish I could sing like Olivia Newton-John! And I would’ve loved to have lived in the Fifties with those cute poodle skirts and guys in leather jackets, going to drive-ins and sock hops…”

  I listened to my fri
end rhapsodize about life two decades ago—although Betsy’s current world couldn’t have been more like her fantasy. It was still all about milkshakes, dances and frivolous movies. She didn’t need to be in the Fifties for that. (Maybe just for the poodle skirts.) But Betsy didn’t see it the way I did. Didn’t see the pure simplicity of her life.

  Over chocolate malteds, I let her chatter while my mind drifted ahead to the morning, to being with Donovan and to pressing on in the search for our brothers. Three obstacles down, zero left to battle…at least here at home. Who knew how many challenges were ahead once we were on the road, though?

  At one point, Betsy mentioned how we’d run into Donovan, and my attention was fully engaged again.

  “He seemed to really like that blond girl,” my friend said unhelpfully. “It’s good that he’s trying to find happiness, you know. After everything.”

  She paused then sent me a goofy look, like one of the many we’d shared early on in high school when teen life had been amusing and uncomplicated. “Hey, do you think he’s one of those guys who’ll stop at payphones to call her five times a day?” She laughed at the mental image. “Or pick up souvenirs for her at every campus?”

  “No,” I said. That wasn’t going to happen even if he was that type.

  “Ha! I didn’t think so. He seems so…moody. You know, serious and brooding sometimes, but then kind of funny and flirtatious.” Betsy fancied herself liking “moodiness” in a guy ever since she’d read about Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre. “Are you, like, excited about taking this trip with him and seeing the colleges?” she asked. “Or more nervous?”

  “A little nervous,” I admitted. “Mostly because the future is so…uncertain.”

  I studied my friend after I said that, knowing Betsy would understand the words but not look or listen for nuances. She wouldn’t think beyond the obvious and, maybe, it wasn’t fair to expect that of her. But I also knew she wouldn’t probe further. Wouldn’t ask for clarification or question anything I said in a way that wasn’t light, breezy and as shallow as a cookie sheet.