by Heidi Ayarbe
Sometimes I worry finding Aunt Sarah is more science fiction than science. And all of this is for nothing. “Why are you such a skeptic?” I ask. “The system can’t fail everyone.”
Nicole glares at me. “Yeah, you really trusted it. You were in it, what, a month? Two months? And you decided to split.” She turns to Klondike. “How long were you in?”
Klondike taps my shoulder. “Everything burned because of me and the demons. And Pa—tallywhacker, asswipe—” Klondike turns his head toward the sun and lets out a long, low croak. “The wicked flee when no man persueth. So I ran. And keep running. Because of the demons inside of me.”
We’re in the parking lot of the last restaurant on the edge of town. There are several trucks parked side by side in the front of the restaurant. People scarf down hot turkey sandwiches, spaghetti, chicken pot pie—diner food at its finest. And Klondike thinks he’s possessed.
I sigh. “You don’t have demons, Klon,” I say.
Klon shakes his head. “I bring bad luck. I bring the Devil wherever I go.” He looks away from us. “I’ll go alone now. Asswipe. For the wages of sin is death. I am a sinner. Tallywhacker. I have demons.”
I look at Klon standing before us in his rags and want to tell him everything’s going to be okay.
Hypothesis: If Klondike knows he’s not possessed but probably has Tourette’s, he’ll feel better. Won’t he? Or maybe he’ll realize he lived with horrible, ignorant people who treated him terribly and made him feel bad about who he is.
Does everybody need to know the truth about things? I’ve always thought so, but now I wonder. Will it help me to know the truth about Mom?
What is her truth? What is anybody’s?
I hate these vague questions with no answers. No hypothesis. No procedure. Just variables that are out of my control.
I’m trying to order things in my mind when Nicole says, “Klon, people treated you like shit. You aren’t the sinner. They are. You didn’t deserve that burn, so something amazing will happen to you one day—one of your miracles. That’s what Jeopardy’s karma is all about.”
How come she seems to make things so clear? Breathe, I think. Just work out a new procedure to find Aunt Sarah. I need to stick to the purpose: Find Aunt Sarah. That’s the purpose. That won’t change.
“Are we gonna hitch?” Nicole asks.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I lean in and whisper. “We kind of stand out, you know.” I say in a louder voice, “Klon. You’re coming with us. We stick together. That’s the code, right?”
Nicole nods. Proud. Her stupid Mafia code, but it makes more sense than anything I seem to come up with: before family, before God. Our moms and dads aren’t getting any parent-of-the-year awards. They’re even too screwed up for Dr. Phil. It’s like we’ve thrown every genetic quirk into a vial and ka-boom—major dysfunctional offspring.
Klondike shivers. I cup his hand in mine. “You aren’t evil, Klon. You’re the best person I’ve ever known. We’re going to find my aunt Sarah and Cappy’s dad. And we’re all going to be okay.” That sounds about as cheesy as they come. Geez.
But Klondike seems happy about it.
“A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.” He wipes a tear from his eye and taps my shoulder. “So what are we gonna do?” he asks.
I wish I could call Dad. He’d know what to do. Well, he used to. Until he gave me away to the State of Nevada.
An image of Martin Greer lying in a hospital bed flashes into my mind. I erase it. If I hadn’t stopped him, Nicole would be really hurt. And probably Klon and me, too. The rules have changed. I need to change with them.
We watch big trucks pull into the parking lot, gravel popping off mud flaps with profiles of naked ladies on them. I wipe my nose and still smell the burn of flesh.
Klondike sits on his heels and croaks.
“I’m not sure what we should do,” I finally say. “I’m—”
“Scared?” Nicole asks.
“Yeah.” I rub my hands together.
“Welcome to my life,” she says. She sits next to Klondike. “You know, though, this is turning into a very cool road trip.”
“This is not a road trip,” I say.
“Not exactly, but kind of.”
“Not at all,” I say. “Road trips are supposed to be fun.”
Nicole smirks. “I bet this is the most fun you’ve ever had. I mean, really. When have you ever just lived like this—taking one moment at a time?”
Every single day with my dad, I think. And I hate it. Why is everybody’s definition of fun spontaneity? Why isn’t it okay to want predictable? Normal? Normal would be fun.
“So? What’s your big plan, Jeopardy?” Nicole asks.
That’s the problem. Every plan I put into place falls apart. Nothing is under control—especially Nicole and Klon. They’re the two most erratic variables in this whole mess. I just need to keep the purpose the same. The hypothesis and procedure can change. There are many roads to get to the same destination.
God. I’m starting to sound like Dad during his motivational speaker days—Eight Steps to a Better You. All for a nominal fee, of course. (Cash only, please.) Focus, I think. Just focus.
Hypothesis: If we can get to Boise, we can find the restaurant on Main Street. If we can find the restaurant, somebody there might know Aunt Sarah. If I have more information about Aunt Sarah, maybe we can get off the streets.
Everything starts to unfold in my mind, make sense.
Procedure:
1) Hide in somebody’s truck to get out of Jackpot
2) Get to Boise
3) Find Main Street
4) Find the restaurant where Aunt Sarah worked
5) Find more clues about Aunt Sarah or find Aunt Sarah. (Who’s to say she isn’t still there?)
The method will work. It has to.
“So?” Nicole throws a rock, skipping it across the pavement. She’s irritating—that all-knowing attitude.
“We need to get out of Jackpot. That’s my big plan of the day,” I say. The gravel has started to dig its way into my butt, and I shift positions trying to find some comfort on the craggy rocks.
“Well, remember the rules. One: No names. Two: We don’t fall asleep, and three: We stick together, okay?” Nicole stands up and brushes dust off her pants. “That’s why a code is good. It makes things clear.”
I sigh. For someone who never seems to follow any rules, she sure sticks steadfast to the ones she makes. I survey the trucks, looking for Idaho plates. There’s one with a tarp tied down over something lumpy. The license plate holder says TWIN FALLS—BOISE—JEEP CHEVROLET. “That’s our ride,” I say. “We need to get under that tarp.”
“How do you know?” Nicole asks.
“It’s an Idaho plate. The license plate holder says Twin Falls. If they bought their truck in Twin Falls, maybe they live there, too. So I imagine they’re heading back to Idaho as soon as they scarf down their hash browns and watery coffee.” I turn to Klondike. “You okay with this?”
Klondike nods and taps his fingers to his head, coughing weakly. Then he goes back to croaking, cradling his side. Nicole crosses her arms in front of her. “And if I’m not?”
“You have a better plan?”
“No,” she says.
I point to the truck. “Then get under the tarp.”
Nicole bites her lower lip. “Let’s go for a ride.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
We huddle in the truck. And wait.
And wait.
Nothing happens. Nobody jumps in and revs it up.
What seems like hours pass. I pull out the envelope and let the dried flower slip into my hands. I understand what Nicole means about having something real. Aunt Sarah sent something to Mom—more than words, more than paychecks—something that meant something to her. That’s real.
“Nice, Jeopardy. What do we do now?” Nicole asks, interrupting my thoughts. “I think my ass has frozen to the
grooves in this fucking truck bed.”
I put the flower back into the envelope and peer out from under the tarp to see if I can catch a glimpse of anything. The sun is high above us. It’s got to be noon or early afternoon. At least the sun warms up the heavy tarp. It’s warmer inside than out. “We can’t risk getting out here where other people might see us. What do you want to do?”
“Nice wasted day.” Nicole rubs her arms.
Klondike croaks and cradles his side.
“Are you okay, Klon?” I ask. “Your side’s hurting a lot.”
He drums the truck bed with his fingers. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Sorry about the truck idea, guys,” I say.
“Well, we’re here now,” Nicole says. “At least nobody’s messing with us.”
That’s true.
Klondike taps me and puts his arm around my shoulder.
“Let’s take a nap,” Nicole suggests. “I got first shift if you two want to sleep.”
“That’s okay. I got first shift. I owe you guys,” I say. “If nothing happens in half an hour, let’s get out and find another ride, okay?”
“Perfect.” Nicole yawns. “A half hour of uninterrupted sleep. A half hour of safe.” She sighs.
Nicole and Klondike lie down. She turns to me before sleeping. “Just half an hour.”
“Yep. Just half an hour.”
“Don’t sleep. Rule two.”
“I won’t.”
But I do.
And I don’t wake up until I hear the door slam and the tread of heavy boots outside the truck. Somebody opens the bed of the truck—the heavy tailgate thunking down. I pinch Nicole awake and put my fingers to my pursed lips when she looks at me. She motions to Klondike, but I shake my head. The last thing we need is a croak.
“Goddamn tarp keeps coming loose,” a woman grumbles, tightening the ropes from the outside. Instead of getting in the truck and driving away, she walks away, her footsteps growing faint.
I push on the tarp, but it doesn’t budge. I feel the closeness of it; the musty air; the stench of gasoline, the sensation of being shut in, trapped. I push harder.
Hypothesis: If we don’t get out of the truck, we’ll die of hypothermia or starvation or carbon monoxide poisoning or all of the above.
Well, you really only can have one cause of death, but the others would just make things all the more uncomfortable.
I kick on the tarp. “We can’t get out.”
Nicole pushes. “Help me out here.” The two of us throw all our weight into the tarp.
I stumble on Klondike and he sits up straight. “Tater,” he says, and croaks.
Again we lean against the tarp trying to loosen the ropes, but nothing moves. I can feel my throat close up, stopping oxygen from getting to my lungs. “I can’t breathe,” I say.
Nicole pulls me back. “Just relax, okay? We wanted a ride. We’ll get one.”
“We’ve gotta get out of here.” I claw at the canvas until sweat beads on my forehead and drips down my back. Everything starts to smell like body odor, feet, and exhaust fumes. I pound even harder, my chafed knuckles bleeding against the tarp’s taut surface.
Nicole clutches my shoulders. “Relax. We’re fine. Nothing’s wrong.”
Klondike twitches and taps my shoulder. I push him off. “Don’t touch me. Not now. We’ve gotta get out of here.” My throat closes, and I can’t breathe. I wake up with Nicole shaking my shoulders.
“You totally passed out,” she says. “Are you okay?”
She actually sounds concerned.
“We’re stuck,” I whisper. “You know how long it takes to die from hypothermia? The moment our bodies lose heat faster than we can maintain it, everything goes downhill. We shiver. The cold kind of freezes our brains and we can’t reason. We won’t even know we’re going to die. Then we’ll lose control of our small motor skills, slip into comas, go into organ failure, and die.”
“Well, none of us are shivering. The only one here who has made bad decisions is you making us climb into this stupid truck. So I think we’re fine,” Nicole says. “Don’t get all unzipped on us now. It’s not like we’re going down like Giovanni and Pietro Ligammari.”
I lay my head on the cool metal of the truck bed and squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for one of Nicole’s twisted mob anecdotes.
“They found them, father and son, hanging from the basement rafters, face-to-face. At first they said it was suicide, but not likely.” Nicole whistles. “Now that’s fucking brutal.”
“Why do you even care about how those people died?” I ask, then say, “I don’t think Klon should hear those things.”
Nicole sighs. “Ah. He’s heard worse. You know, there’s an Italian mob boss who’s in jail now who some people think should be made a saint. His name is Bernardo Provenzano. They’re big on the religion thing, the mob. Big-time Catholics. The Italians, I mean. And the Chinese, the Triad, are into Guan Yu, the Taoist God of brotherhood. The Reds, the Russians, I’m not so sure about. Are they commies or something?
“Anyway, all these mobs are into religion. Like that Bernardo Provenzano. He could say all this Bible shit,” she whispers, “kind of like Klondike does. You know, I’ve been kind of wondering what he meant when he said miracles were just people doing what they should do in the first place.”
I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, trying to get the vision of two Mafia guys with bulging eyes hanging from a basement ceiling out of my head. I curl up tighter. “I haven’t thought about it,” I say.
“You don’t listen good, Jeopardy.”
“How do you know all this stuff about the mob anyway?”
“True Crime Channel. In one foster home I had a TV in my room and watched it twenty-four/seven. It was pretty great until they decided to move to Africa or someplace to start up an orphanage there. Real hippies, give-back-to-the-world shit. They shipped off to Africa and I was shipped back to Kids Place. Not cool. Sure kids in Africa need help, but so did I.”
“So all these Mafia facts have their own personalities in your nineteen-twenties bar?” I ask.
“Yep. But that’s not too hard. They’re people. You just have to put the actual person there. It’s the Darwin’s friendship theory shit that needs extra work.”
I sigh and start to recite the periodic table to myself.
Nicole keeps talking. And talking. Her words filling up the tarp. With all her hot air we should take off any second and float away. She goes on and on, her words running together like one endless sticky strand of glue. She taps me on the shoulder. “Or what?”
“Or what, what?” I ask.
“It’s not like we’ve got anywhere to go. Or is Auntie Em expecting you for dinner?”
“Be quiet,” I say, and try to pretend we’re outside. Free. “Please. Just. Be. Quiet.”
“It’s nice here,” Klondike says. “Cozy and warm.” Then he croaks, rubbing his side, blowing on his fingers.
Nicole huffs, “Nice fucking road trip.”
“This is not a road trip,” I mumble. I want to ring her neck but don’t have the energy. Plus, if I open my eyes, I might lose it again. “Everything sucks right now,” I mutter.
“This is not a road trip,” Nicole mimics. “Of course not according to your scientific definition of a road trip. What is it? Roadeth Trippeth: The act of going in a car to a specific destination with a cooler of Coke. Whoopeee. Fun. Get over the pity party, Jeopardy. Christ.” She gnaws on a nail.
Klondike croaks again and says, “The sun don’t shine up one dog’s ass all the time.” He turns to Nicole. “Stop stirring the turd. I’m tired.” He lies back down.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s forget about it.”
We sit in silence in the truck for a while until I ask, “Why did you want to leave Kids Place with me anyway?”
“We already used up our theme of the day.”
“It’s been a long day.” I can feel it’s already evening. A long, wasted day.
“S
ame twenty-four hours.”
“It’s not a theme, Cappy. It’s just a question,” I say.
She lies down and closes her eyes. “No questions.”
“Whatever,” I sigh, and I lie back down. I curl up in a ball and hold my stomach. I picture the acids working their way through my gastrointestinal tract, eroding part of my small intestine. The hole will be small at first; then it’ll grow. Perhaps later I’ll develop an ulcer in the lining of my stomach. It might bleed and I’ll get iron-deficiency anemia. Then, over time, it will turn into cancer. And I’ll die a lingering, excruciating death.
“Charles Carneglia,” she says, just as I’m drifting off to sleep.
“Huh?” I say.
“Charles Carneglia—the go-to guy for the mob when they wanted to dissolve hits in acid. You listened to my stories at Kids Place. It’s like I’d been talking for nine years, but you heard me.” She pauses. “With you, I’m real.”
I swallow back the knot that forms in my throat. I’m either getting really sentimental or sick. My throat just hurts all the time. “It’s hard not to hear you with how much you talk,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” whispers Nicole. “I didn’t talk the one time it counted, and I’ve been talking stupid shit ever since.”
After a bit I say, “They count.”
“What count?” she asks.
“Your stories.”
We’re quiet. Klon croaks. I rub my arms and find a comfortable spot. “You know, even if I feel bad about that Martin kid, it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again, okay? Just conflicting emotions, I guess.”
Klondike quietly taps on the truck bed, croaking softly. Nicole finally says, “Let’s do short-a words until I fall asleep. When I do, you get first shift, Jeopardy.”
“That’s fair.”
“Don’t fall asleep,” she says.
“I won’t,” I say.
“Bat—b a t, cat—c a t, fat—f a t…,” she begins. She’s a fast learner and continues with “an,” “am,” “ad” words until her voice gets heavy with sleep and she drifts off. Her last word, “dad.”
