Out

by Laura Preble

  It’s dark in the parking lot. We drive silently back, Carmen under the circle of my arm, fused to my side. We trade delicious kisses, luxurious, sloppy and sweet and excessively greedy, to the point that Jana rolls her eyes and makes disgusted sounds as she drives. Thank God for tinted windows.

  Too soon, we’re parked in front of the Goldmans, and I know this is goodbye, at least for now.

  She turns to me, holds my head in her hands, kisses my mouth as if she’s saying a prayer. “Tomorrow.” I nod. We hug. She leans over the seat and hugs Jana awkwardly, then jumps out of the car, runs up the walk, disappears into the house.

  She clings to me in memory and scent, and I don’t want to move, don’t want to disturb even a fraction of the magic.

  “Let’s hope your boyfriend has gone home already,” Jana says as she pulls onto the street. “And you’re welcome.”

  “Thanks.” I close my eyes. I’m not in that car. I’m in Canada, in a little brick townhouse. With violets.

  No one has left the porch light on, so it takes a minute to get in. The quiet is a relief; no one is home.

  Every muscle, every fiber in me feels tired, like I could fall asleep and hibernate until summer. All I want to do it crash in my bed. “Night,” I call to Jana, who is foraging in the fridge.

  “You’re going to bed?” She chugs from a glass container of milk. “We should get drunk.”

  “I need to go to sleep.”

  “Okay. I can get drunk on my own. Good night.” She waves at me and downs another swig of two percent. I don’t think she’s really going to get drunk, but with Jana, you never know.

  My room looks different. I think it’s because I know it’s the last night I’ll spend in it. What can I bring with me? I think I could get away with the telescope; we’re supposed to be checking out the night sky. Some clothes. Books? Too heavy. Little League trophy? Everybody got one. I sucked at baseball.

  I grab a blanket and the Carmen shirt that still sits in a heap on my bed, and I head for the balcony, for one last look at the field I’ve seen every day. The deck boards are cold, but I want to feel them against my feet; I inhale the distant scent of burning leaves, focus on the dark silhouettes in the field. Objects are black on black, but if you look closely enough, they resolve to distinct outlines. Things look different when you know you won’t see them again.

  I unscrew the telescope lens. Her note and the bracelet fall out, clatter onto the wood. Such a little thing, that symbol etched in silver. So small, but also so immense that it drives everything. Why? Why does anyone else care who loves me, or whom I love?

  I want to wear this bracelet. Maybe I can turn the silver disc over so the symbol doesn’t show. Might flip, though. Then what? Clutching the blanket, I go inside, root through my desk looking for…yeah. Red yarn. I wrap it around the silver symbol, wrap it tightly, tie it off, and voilá: an innocent, non-political piece of jewelry. I go out, take one last look at the night sky.

  The stars look the same. Nothing has changed up there.

  Chapter 12

  “So, you like sports?” McFarland asks as he steers the rented Highlander over rain-soaked back roads, squinting as if it will help him see through the steady downpour. We’ve been on the road nearly two hours, and it feels like we’ve been going through God’s eternal carwash. “Baseball? Soccer?”

  “Not really.” I pick at the bracelet; gotta be careful not to peel off the red yarn. “I run, that’s about it.”

  “Running.” He nods as if he understands. “I never did that. I was into baseball myself. I was a shortstop.”

  I nod, make some noise to indicate interest, and pretend to intensely read the map unfolded on my knees. I nudge my backpack with my foot; inside is the red wallet, with the money and the map I hope I won’t need.

  He clears his throat, sniffs, and then says, “Are you afraid of me?”

  Whoa. An honest question. How do I respond? “Uh…no.”

  “You hesitated.” His eyes are locked on the road.

  I don’t want to mess this up before we even get there. What would be a good, Anglicant response? “I guess…it’s just that I don’t have much experience…with guys. Any experience, if you want to know the truth.” That’s absolutely true. No experience with guys. A flash of Carmen, me in the forest with her, memories of her body…but that doesn’t count.

  “Ah.” His shoulders relax slightly. “I see. Well, you don’t have to worry. This is just a get-acquainted trip, Chris. No rush. I really just want to get to know you.” He glances at me, shoots me a generous, paternal smile, and then focuses on the road again.

  I feel a stab of guilt. Really, is he such a bad guy? Does he deserve whatever it is they’re going to do to him? Does anyone deserve it? I stare at his profile, illuminated partially by the lights from the oncoming cars. He’s no demon.

  Are you still responsible for sins if you didn’t commit them, but saw them happening and let them happen? I must sigh heavily, because he notices.

  “Everything okay?” He glances at the dashboard. “Almost there, I think. Where are we on the map?”

  Map. It gives me something to do. I point a small flashlight at the paper, find our location, and find the spot where the cabins are. “We’re just about another hour away, I think.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” I don’t want to stop for any reason. If we stop, it’ll take longer to get there, and it might throw off the plan. Of course, they’re not coming till midnight. Maybe eating would be a good idea. That could minimize the time I have alone with him. “Actually, yeah. Yeah, I think I am kind of hungry. How about you?”

  He smiles, excited, I guess, that I want to do something as regular as eat food with him. “Sure. See any place good to eat around here?”

  A green neon sign, blurred in the rivulets running down the windows, glows in the distance. I think it’s a little bar, mostly for hunters. I don’t remember anything else being between here and the cabins, so it’s that place or no place. “Yeah, let’s go there,” I say, pointing toward the sign.

  He squints at the green blur. “Busby Lake Tavern?” He arches his eyebrows. “You think they have food?”

  “Or something like it,” I joke.

  We both laugh. Makes it a little less awkward.

  The Busby Lake Tavern is a small place crouched on the edge of a parking lot. Presumably, there’s a lake somewhere nearby, but you’d never know it in this weather. McFarland parks the car—I grab the backpack at my feet and we both sprint to the door, covering our heads with our jackets to avoid a drenching.

  Inside, it’s old wood and concrete floors, just your typical biker-burly-lumberjack bar. Mostly men occupy the bar stools, and there are a few picnic-type tables where groups of friends joke loudly over pitchers of beer, trying to outshout the jukebox. McFarland shakes off the rain, heads for a vacant bar table with two swivel chairs, and I follow. I put the backpack on the floor, put my foot on it. Nobody’s taking it.

  The noise lets us be quiet, which suits me fine. He keeps looking at the bar as if he could magically summon a waiter, but the place is definitely not a hub of customer service. “I can go over and order some food,” he offers with a question in his voice. What, does he want me to do it? Hell no.

  “Sure. I’ll have whatever. Cheeseburger, nachos, whatever bar food they have. Pretzels, even.” I’m an easy date.

  He nods and gives me a pale smile. Future bishops don’t hang in cheapo hunter bars, I guess. I bet he orders wine.

  While I’m waiting, I scope the room. A couple of guys check me out—I wonder if they think he’s my dad? Ugh.

  One in particular keeps actually staring at me. I look away, concentrating on the table.

  “Hey.”

  I jump. The guy who was staring is now standing at my elbow.

  “Uh…hi.” I spot McFarland’s back at the bar; looks like he’s still waiting patiently for someone to quit ignoring him. I’m hoping the stranger will disappear, but I
can feel him standing right there. Okay. I turn toward him.

  Thick overgrowth of unshaven beard, black-rimmed sunglasses. Not so suave. There’s something kind of familiar about him, but I can’t think of what it is. “Can I help you?”

  “Nope.” He perches on the other swivel chair, comfortable as a cat on a windowsill. He tilts a beer bottle at me in salute, then takes a swig. “Just thought I’d introduce myself.” He leans forward, pushes the glasses down his face slightly, and peers at me over the top.Nervous prickles start working up my back, down my arms. I check on McFarland; he’s moved, hoping for better service at the far end of the bar, I guess.

  “Yeah, I’m here with a friend…”

  “I know all about your friend.” He leans even closer and touches the back of my hand, then taps my yarn-covered bracelet. “I know what’s under there,” he says in a sing-song voice.

  My breathing stops; sounds fade. Is this what fainting feels like? A dark, narrowing tunnel squeezing vision down to an invisible pinpoint? I’m still trying to fake it, though; my conscious mind, at least, hasn’t lost it. “I don’t know what you mean.” I yank my hand back as if it’s been burnt.

  “Relax.” He drains the last of his beer, sets the bottle on the table. “I’m on your side.”

  “My side?” Still playing dumb. I’m hoping he just gets bored and goes away. How does he know about the bracelet?

  He glances over his shoulder at the bar. “Looks like your buddy got someone to take your order, so I’ll get going. Just wanted to say hi, Chris. I’m Matt.” He leans in even closer, pulls the sunglasses to the tip of his nose, and whispers, “from Canada.”

  I seriously think I’m going to throw up, wet my pants, or pass out. Now I remember. He’s the kid who was in the magazine Jana gave me, the kid who was California’s rebel. “Are you M.A.?” I whisper back.

  He nods, and stands up as if stretching. “Gotta go. We’ll be seeing you soon.” He ambles away as if we just traded baseball stats or something. I don’t watch him. I’m busy trying to slow down my racing heart.

  “Who was that?” McFarland plants himself in the swivel chair Matt just sat in. He sounds slightly jealous. “You picking up guys?”

  “No, no,” I stammer. “I don’t know who he is. Don’t worry about it. I told him to get lost.” Oh, crap. He’s scanning the room, looking for the guy. I put my hand on McFarland’s. “Jim, it’s okay.”

  That gets his attention, as I knew it would. “You called me Jim!” He grins, ridiculously pleased with this apparent sign of affection. Again, I feel kind of bad for him. I think he really kind of likes me.

  I pull my hand back and smile as genuinely as I can. “Hey, I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Be back in a minute.” I grab the pack.

  “You can leave that here,” he says, surprised. “I’ll be sure and watch it.”

  I just grin and don’t try to explain.

  “Food should be here pretty soon,” he says warmly as I walk away.

  The restroom is down a dimly lit hallway, behind a wooden door with a Water Closet sign on it. I push in the door and lock it with a rusty slide lock, lean against it as if it’s keeping me upright. A fluorescent bug light zaps in the corner, smiting invisible gnats. After I get my breathing under control, I sit on the toilet, head between my knees, backpack at my feet. The wallet’s there. I could just run away, use the map, forget about the whole thing.

  Someone knocks. “Chris?” It’s McFarland. How long have I been in here?

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Oh.” His voice on the other side of the door sounds relieved, but slightly panicky. Maybe he thought I was going to run away with the baseball-cap guy. “Food’s here.”

  “Be right there.” I stand up, turn on the scratched-up faucet, watch cold water cascade down the rust-rimmed drain. “Just washing up.”

  “Okay.” I listen to see if he’s walked away, but all I can hear is the thumping bass of a country song bleeding through the walls. In the chipped mirror, I look pale as death, still-wet hair sticking up at weird angles. I smooth it down, splash some water on my face, and look for a paper towel. All they have is that old-fashioned white-cloth thing with a green border stripe hanging from an ancient dispenser. I use my shirt.

  Back in the bar, there’s no sign of Matt. What was he doing here? I guess he must be in on the…activity. Jesus, why did he have to say anything? I’m shaking.

  I nudge my way through knots of pool players and beer drinkers and get back to the table, where McFarland nibbles on a French fry. Two big, greasy-looking burgers perch on paper plates.

  I sit, reposition the backpack, and then grab the burger, take a bite, feel nauseous. Not sure I’d trust the hygiene in the kitchen here. “How’s your food?” I ask, trying to calm my queasy stomach.

  He’s chewing a huge mouthful of burger. “Good,” he manages to say. I pick up a fry and bite it in half. Tastes like freezer burn.

  We finish the food in silence.

  Back in the car, I stare out the window as we continue along the rain-soaked road. “Mind if I turn on the radio?” I ask. It’d be better than this silence, and I don’t really want to talk. The more we talk, the worse I feel about…everything.

  “Sure.” He fumbles with the controls. “You do it. I can’t figure it out and drive at the same time.”

  I push the power button, get a bunch of static, turn a dial until I get something like music. It’s classical, but better than nothing. McFarland reaches over and turns it off.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you doing this?” He’s still staring ahead at the road, eyes on the two white beams of the headlights.

  “Why am I going with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean?” I fidget with my bracelet.

  “I mean, why are you doing this? To please your father? To get into a good school? I am not under any illusion that it’s because of me.” He shoots me a sidelong glance.

  I really can’t lie about this, not like I should. Better to stick with a partial truth. “Honestly, I wanted to get away from home.”

  I see his shoulders relax. “Oh. Why is that?”

  Truth, truth…much better at hiding lies than flat-out lies themselves. “Warren and David are just…really pushing me to decide what to do with my life, and I just don’t know what that is yet. I can’t know until I know. Does that make any sense?”

  “Of course.” The doubt has gone away, at least for now. “It’s a big decision, what you want to do after high school. Of course, you do still have the rest of your senior year to think about it. Break’s over in a week, is that right?”

  “Yeah. I’m so tired of school.” Again, true. Especially now. I haven’t even thought about it since the whole Carmen thing surfaced. Seems like a different life. “You have to make all these decisions before you’re even out of school, while you’re in school. I just don’t feel like I’m handling it all very well.”

  “Seems like you handle it just fine.” He nods to something up ahead. “There’s a sign. Indian Lake, six miles. Almost there!”

  Yeah. Almost there. I’m glad I didn’t eat much. My stomach hurts.

  We stop at the check-in, a log cabin lodge framed by fir trees. The scent of burnt firewood clings to everything. Deer Creek. We have to get Deer Creek cabin. I hope whoever is supposed to know that is working. I hope nothing goes wrong.

  “Don’t be so nervous,” McFarland says, hugging me around the shoulders. He plucks at the strap of the pack. “Is this like your security blanket or something? You don’t need to worry.” We clomp up the split-log stairs and go into the office. It’s warm, with a crackling fire blazing away in a big stone hearth.

  A girl wearing a bright red hunter’s hat sits behind the counter reading a magazine. “Hey,” she says without looking up. “Welcome to Indian Lake. Name?”

  “Jim McFarland.” He glances at me, and smiles. “Plus one.”

  The g
irl arches an eyebrow, very subtly, then pores over a big register book. “Ah. Here we go. Deer Creek Cabin.” She swivels in her squeaky office chair, grabs a key, and hands it across. “Credit card?”

  McFarland digs his wallet out of his pants pocket, produces the card, and waits while she runs it. “This place is great,” he says excitedly. “Quiet. California is never quiet. I mean, if you go out into the countryside, but you know, where I live, it’s always freeway noise, people, pets, traffic.” Now he seems nervous.

  “Here you are, Mr. McFarland.” She pushes a map onto the counter, and points with a red pen. “This is where we are—” she circles something “—and this is where you’re going.” She puts a red X on a little building. “Take the access road to the right as you’re looking out from the porch. Deer Creek is the last cabin. Pretty dark out there, so here’s a flashlight.” She plunks a heavy black Maglite on the counter. That might come in handy later. I wonder if she’s part of this too?

  McFarland scoops up the key and flashlight, and grins at me. “After you,” he says, gesturing toward the door. We clump down the stairs, dodge the drizzle, get back in the car, and start down the road.

  The closer we get to Deer Creek the worse I feel. It doesn’t help that it’s pitch black and tree branches are waving like living demons from a horror movie, or that we keep hitting huge ruts in the dirt road, or...

  “Pull over,” I manage to blurt out before my dinner comes up.

  Even though the car’s still moving, I throw open the door. He brakes as I puke my guts out, steady rain drumming on my skull.

  “Oh, God, Chris. Are you alright?” He’s patting my back. “Let it all out. Rotten biker bar.”

  I don’t think the food is causing my gut cramps, but I don’t tell him that.

  When I think I’m done, I sit up. He grabs a roll of paper towels from the back seat, hands me a wad, and I wipe my hair and face. “I’m okay,” I say weakly.