Thou Shalt Not Road Trip

by Antony John

  The kid is crying.

  THE KID IS CRYING.

  His mother wraps an arm around him. “Luke doesn’t mean that Santa isn’t real, love. Any more than God isn’t real. Right, Luke?”

  She peers up expectantly. She’s given me an opportunity to redeem myself. Only, I’m kind of confused about what she just said.

  “Um, I…” I look around for help, but don’t get any. Reluctantly I lock eyes with the kid again. “Sure, your mom is right,” I tell him, because honestly, I don’t care. “Listen to her.”

  I figure that will be the end of it, but a lady in the middle of the room coughs ostentatiously. “So you’re saying God doesn’t exist?”

  “Wha—? No, I… I…”

  This is going horribly wrong. Smiles are still pasted on everyone’s faces, but the eyes are narrowed. They’re waiting for me to join the dots of this crazy dialogue, to tie everything up with a nice, neat bow. Surely I wouldn’t be saying these insane things unless I had an endgame in mind. But there’s no endgame. I just have a head clogged so full of thoughts that I can’t get out of my own way.

  Christmas trees and paganism! Santa Claus and Coca-Cola! There’s a laundry list running through my mind, loud and invasive like a stock market ticker. I’m tempted to press my hands against my ears to block out the whole mad world.

  “What did you do on your day off?” somebody calls out.

  It’s Teresa. And though she looks different again, I’m so pleased to see a friendly face that I could almost cry.

  “I hiked to Havasu Falls,” I mumble.

  “Wow. That’s a busy day off. Can you tell us about it?”

  I can’t be sure, but I get the feeling she understands what I’m going through—that I’m floundering in a strong current and need a lifeline.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. “There’s a long hike through a valley with the reddest rock you’ll ever see, and then another hike to the falls. It’s as close to paradise as any place I’ve ever seen. Just thinking about it takes me back there, you know?”

  The audience murmurs in agreement. I hope Matt doesn’t find out what I just said, or I’ll never hear the end of it.

  “It’s like the story in Realizations six, verses five to nine: the boy who finds silence inside himself,” I continue. “I think I’ve brought some of that peacefulness with me. That’s probably why I’m so slow and incoherent.” There’s a ripple of nervous laughter. “I don’t know… maybe the point of all this is to show that I don’t have all the answers. Actually, I don’t think I have any answers at all. But I do know that when I stood looking at those falls last night, there was a moment when everything seemed to make perfect sense.”

  Some members of the audience applaud, and I breathe a little easier. I turn my attention back to the kid as his mother dabs his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “So, hey, it’s okay for you to believe in Santa Claus,” I tell him. “If that’s your place where things make sense, then go with it. Believe me, I remember what it was like, back when I was your age—you know, until my brother ruined it by telling me Santa doesn’t exist.”

  “And that’s a good time to break for signing,” says the bookstore owner, his words drowned out by the wailing of a six-year-old boy.

  8:30 P.M.

  The never-ending signing line at the Good Samaritan Bookstore, Flagstaff, Arizona

  Everyone has questions, and for once I’m determined to answer them—or try to, anyway. After the embarrassment of the event itself, it’s the least I can do. I can’t promise complete sentences or intelligent responses, but it doesn’t matter; everyone’s expectations have been lowered so much that a grunt sends them off happy. What would my debate coach say about this?

  The line drags on and on, and after a while I realize I’m waiting for one person in particular: Teresa—who understands me, doesn’t judge me, and saves me. I need to thank her.

  She’s at the end of the line, as always. I’m so pleased to see her that I even manage not to stare at her form-fitting pink T-shirt, and the braids all piled up on her head like a medieval warrior princess. The supersized crucifix is back again too.

  “My two favorite lovebirds!” exclaims Fran, appearing as if from nowhere. I didn’t even know she was here.

  “Not now, Fran,” I say, trying to stay calm.

  “Ooh, that’s an impressive piece of body armor you got there, Teresa.” Fran points to the cross. “I’ve seen Kevlar vests that offer less protection.”

  Teresa pouts. “It’s a sign of my allegiance to the Holy One.”

  “To the Holy One, huh? Well, I’m sure the Dalai Lama can see it all the way from Tibet.”

  “I don’t mean the Dalai Lama. I mean God.”

  “Really? Then why don’t you visit a church, instead of haunting Luke’s events?”

  “Why? Luke speaks more eloquently than any pastor I’ve heard. I sometimes wonder if God is speaking straight through him.”

  I open my mouth, but I can’t think of a sensible thing to say to that.

  Teresa studies me. “Don’t say it hasn’t occurred to you. Why do you think all these people come to see you?”

  “Oh, whatever,” groans Fran.

  Teresa turns to face her. “Don’t dismiss something just because it seems miraculous. The list of holy miracles is endless: walking on water; water into wine—”

  “The list of delusional disciples is endless too, you know.”

  Teresa’s mouth hangs open; a single tear glides down her cheek.

  “Why are you crying?” asks Fran.

  “Ask not why I cry. Only wonder what thou might do to salve me.”

  Fran snorts. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I tug at my shirt collar, feeling suddenly hot. “Teresa is quoting from Hallelujah.”

  “Yeah, I picked up on that, thanks,” she says, like I’m the stupidest person in the world.

  “Why are you being so obnoxious?” I whisper.

  “Huh?” Fran’s mouth remains caught in the shape of a smile, but it quickly disappears. “Oh, don’t be an idiot, Luke.” She stares at me with an expression I remember so well. It says: My logic is irrefutable. Surrender now. Only she hasn’t offered any argument at all. “Okay, you know what? I’m outta here. You two are, quite literally, made for each other.”

  Fran turns on her heel and strides away, chunky black boots clomping on the hardwood floors so loudly they drown out conversations across the store.

  Beside me, Teresa shivers. “Why does she say those awful things? Why would she want me to question my faith?”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Everywhere I go, people like her…” She looks away.

  “What?”

  “Hurt me.” She shakes her head. “I should go.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No, it’s okay. I know you’re busy.”

  “I can make time.”

  Teresa smiles at last. “Okay, then. I’d like that very much. More than you can imagine.”

  8:50 P.M.

  A coffee shop, Flagstaff, Arizona

  We cross the street to a coffee shop. I hold the door open for Teresa and her braids brush against me as she slides by. All eyes turn toward us, though I’m fairly certain no one is looking at me.

  The store has large windows and muted lighting. Soft jazz plays in the background. It seems like the kind of place you’d bring a date, which sets my heart racing.

  Before the door has closed behind us, a man at a nearby window table grabs his newspaper and leaves. Teresa hops onto his vacated stool and pats the one beside her. “Good timing,” she says.

  I nod, and my reflection nods back at me from the window. Teresa glances at the window and catches my eye, the corners of her mouth twisting toward a smile.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “For what?”

  “For speaking to me. You’re so popular and, well… I got the feeling you didn’t have time for someone l
ike me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not popular.” She pulls a tissue from her bag, so I guess more tears are on the way. “The kids at school make fun of me because of my beliefs. Even the way I look. They say I’m… conservative.”

  “Really? I mean, I don’t think that hairstyle would count as conservative at my high school.”

  “Oh.” She sinks a little on her stool.

  “So, uh, you want coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Whatever you’re getting will be great.”

  The place is full and the line is long—at least five couples before me. When I glance over my shoulder, Teresa has left her seat, but her bag is still there. I hope I didn’t offend her by saying that stuff about her hair.

  By the time I’ve paid for the coffees, Teresa has returned. The braids, however, have gone, replaced by cascading waves of hair that extend past her shoulders.

  “I didn’t like that style either,” she says, watching my face. “I just figured I needed a change.”

  “Why? You look amazing.”

  As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back; not because I didn’t mean them—I just don’t want her to think that I think this is a date.

  Teresa lowers her eyes. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Uh-uh. My treat.”

  “Thank you.” She takes a sip. “I wish you went to my school. I’d give anything for someone to talk to. It’s terrible to feel like an outsider all the time.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me. You know that passage you wrote about the bullies? Mishaps, three: verses four to nine?”

  I nod.

  “That’s my life, Luke. Every day. The last week of school I did a book report on Hallelujah, and the teacher told me to pick something else. But I wouldn’t, so she told me not to read it aloud ’cause everyone would laugh at me.” Her face has a faraway look now, her voice barely a whisper. “But I read it anyway, and she was right: Everyone laughed, and cast stones at me—”

  “They stoned you?”

  She blinks. “Oh. Well, sort of. Metaphorically.”

  “In school?”

  She bites her lip. “They were actually balled-up pieces of paper. But they felt like stones.”

  “And your teacher let them do it?”

  “I know. Horrible, right? But now I’m wondering if it was all part of some grand design to bring us together. Just talking with you really helps me. I hate the thought that it might never happen again.”

  The air feels charged. I take a sip of coffee, just for something to do, but Teresa’s eyes never leave me.

  “Don’t move,” she says. She reaches across my right shoulder and around my neck and lifts the back of my shirt collar. “What’s that?” she asks, craning her neck over my left shoulder.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  I tilt my head toward her and try to see what she’s seeing. Her fingers brush the tiny hairs on the back of my neck, and I forget to breathe.

  She’s so close to me.

  Her fingers brush my neck again.

  I lock in on her almond eyes and sense her lips parting by the smallest degree. Her lips are full, accented with a delicate pink gloss. I can feel her breath, practically taste the scent of coffee and mint. I don’t know whether this moment has anything to do with God, but I don’t really care either. I just want her to kiss me.

  Suddenly there’s shouting outside: a nonstop stream of obscenities that carries through the plate-glass window. Teresa pulls back. On the opposite side of the street, beside the bookstore entrance, a man is dragging himself up from the sidewalk. Standing over him like a victorious boxer is Fran.

  Fran?

  I jump off my stool and run outside in time to see her disappear around the corner. I zip through traffic and try to help the guy to stand, but when he takes my hand he practically pulls me over with him.

  “Don’t bother,” he says. “I’ll do it myself.”

  Teresa appears beside us. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “That girl assaulted me,” he says, pointing in the direction that Fran just ran. “I’m standing here minding my own business and the next thing I know she’s kneed me in the nuts and grabbed my camera.”

  “She what?” cries Teresa.

  “She took my camera,” he repeats, slower this time.

  I can’t believe this is happening. If Fran’s goal is to derail this book tour, I’d have to say she has just succeeded. I’m about to go after her when I see a camera sitting on top of a mailbox a few yards away.

  “Is this yours?” I ask, bringing it to him.

  “Yes!” He practically hugs it. I’m not surprised. It looks really expensive.

  “Well, thank goodness,” says Teresa. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah.” He inspects every part of the camera, his face brightening. Then, just as suddenly, he sighs. “Oh, crap.”

  “What?”

  “She took the memory card.”

  Teresa looks as furious as I feel. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’ll sort it out,” I say. “I know who did this.”

  “It was that girl, wasn’t it?” she says. “Your friend Fran.”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  Teresa takes my hand. “Just let it go, Luke. Fran is really mixed up right now. She obviously wants you to follow her. Anyway, I’m sure this man has backups of his photos.” She looks for confirmation, but the guy shakes his head. “You don’t?”

  “No. Why would I? In case I get assaulted?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I say.

  “Uh-uh. He’ll have other memory cards.” Teresa turns to him. “You have other cards, right?” She doesn’t sound as sympathetic anymore.

  The guy’s jawline bulges. “Yes, I have other memory cards, thank you,” he says.

  “Well, thank goodness. Come on, Luke. Our coffee’s getting cold.”

  She’s halfway across the street when she notices I’m not following. She glides back. “What’s the matter?”

  “Fran just attacked this guy. We can’t stand idly by. We have a duty as Christians.”

  “But he seems fine now.”

  “Sure, but what if she’d hurt him badly?”

  The guy grunts. “She kneed me in the nuts, man. Trust me, it was plenty painful—”

  “We’ll sort it out later,” says Teresa. “I promise.”

  She holds out her hand. It still looks like porcelain, even under the amber streetlight. I’m about to take it when I see the guy grimacing.

  “We can’t make him wait, Teresa. I have to get that memory card back.”

  I turn to leave, but she grips my arm. “Please don’t go. Don’t you see? She’s only doing this to make you come after her. She’s jealous because you chose to talk to me. You can’t let her win.”

  I know that Teresa’s right, but when I see the guy again, eyes narrowed in pain, I realize that Fran has already won. Someone needs to hold her accountable, and while I wish it didn’t have to be me, it’s clear that no one else is going to do it.

  “Come on,” I tell them both. “Let’s straighten this out once and for all.”

  I leave quickly—long, determined strides that psych me up for what I have to say to Fran. She’s made it personal now, and I mustn’t back down.

  It’s only a couple hundred yards to our hotel. By the time I get there, I’m alone.

  9:35 P.M.

  Crater Hotel, Flagstaff, Arizona

  Fran is sitting on the bed, staring at Alex’s laptop computer, a couple of pillows propped up behind her. In spite of all the vomiting last night, she’s holding another miniature bottle. It’s almost empty.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Fran.”

  She doesn’t look up. “That’s all right. I’ll wait.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “No, it’s not.” She presses a couple of keys. “My bag strap got frayed when I hit that guy. I’ve had it since fifth grade. It�
�s an antique, and he ruined it.”

  “You need to go back and apologize.”

  Now she looks up. “You’re kidding.”

  “What you did was terrible. You’re lucky he didn’t call the police.”

  She furrows her brows. “Hmm. I wonder why not.”

  “Maybe because he didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. You’ve got to check out these photos, by the way.”

  “No. They’re not mine. Or yours. You need to return that memory card right now.”

  She shakes her head. “Or not.”

  “I’m warning you, Fran—”

  “No, Luke, I’m warning you. Come and look at these now. Because if you don’t, I swear… I might just do what you say.”

  “That’d be nice for a change.”

  “Screw you!” She ejects the memory card and grasps it between her fingers so tightly they make a fist. “You think you’re so wise, don’t you? Well, fine. You deserve what’s coming.”

  She places the laptop on the bed and heads straight out of the room. I brace for the sound of the door slamming behind her, but it doesn’t come. Instead she stands in the hallway, completely still, eyes closed.

  “I can’t do it,” she whispers. “Even though I really want to hurt you right now… I just can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  She turns around. The memory card rests in her upturned palm. “Look at the photos, Luke. Don’t argue with me. Don’t fight. For once, just do it. Please.”

  Something in her voice breaks me down, tells me I have no choice. It’s a tone I haven’t heard sincethe tour began; a tone I haven’t heard in a year. I take the card and slide it into the laptop.

  A grid of photos is arrayed on the screen. When I lean in for a closer look I see they’re all the same: me and Teresa in the coffee shop, my face crystal clear even in the soft lighting. The first dozen or so are of us chatting, but then she’s leaning toward me, reaching around me, her hair draped across my face. Our lips don’t just seem close; they seem locked together, as though we’re sharing an intimate kiss. Judging by these photos, I’m the star of a steamy seduction scene.