The Porcupine of Truth

by Bill Konigsberg

  He shrugs and takes the BB gun back from me. He raises the gun, aims, and says, “Reminds me of a joke I saw written on a bathroom stall. Someone wrote ‘God is dead,’ and signed it ‘Nietzsche.’ Then someone crossed that out. Underneath it, they wrote, ‘Nietzsche is dead. Signed, God.’ ”

  I laugh. “So here’s what I don’t get,” I say. “You believe in God, but you’ve been to Africa and seen all the hardship and crap.”

  He nods, his gun still aimed at the roof.

  “So God lets that crap happen? Why? Why is God so mean?”

  Thomas fires, and this time, the pop is accompanied by a pigeon tumbling off the roof.

  My hand involuntarily grasps my own throat.

  It’s funny, because it’s just a pigeon. And it’s not like I wasn’t just shooting at it myself. Maybe I didn’t put it all together. That the activity we were doing while having a nice talk could actually end a life. Even if it’s the life of just a pigeon.

  I look to the other pigeons to see their reaction. Are they aware of what just happened? Do they know they’ve just lost their family member? Was that a mother? A father? A child?

  That pigeon is over. Life done.

  Thomas is too focused on his kill to notice me. He strides over to view the bird. I look down and see that its wing is still flickering some. Thomas lifts the BB rifle, aims, and fires down into it.

  I sit down on the gravel, numb. Thomas goes inside, and moments later he returns with a dustpan and a black garbage bag. He uses the end of the rifle barrel to push the lifeless pigeon onto the dustpan, and then he throws that life away.

  I sit there with my chin on my knees, watching and wondering what just happened to me. Because it’s just a pigeon. And Thomas is just a man, not like a god. Or maybe he is just like a god, because God smites things every day, every second. This all-loving thing you’re supposed to pray to, who loves you and provides for you. He’s a killer. He’s all-powerful, and terrible stuff just happens, over and over and over again, and God doesn’t stop it. Like with my dad. I think about this and I hate the world.

  Thomas takes the garbage bag down the road to a green Dumpster and deposits the expendable just-a-pigeon life, and then he comes back and he sits next to me on the ground. We both sit there, arms wrapped around our knees, staring at a roof with one less bird.

  “I don’t think God is mean. God just is,” he finally says. “A long time ago I gave up the idea that God was some great puppet master, that one day he decides there needs to be a tornado in Kansas. Things happen, and then there’s God.”

  I don’t respond, because what would I say? Real men don’t have feelings over pigeons. I 100 percent don’t know what a “real man” is, but he doesn’t cry over spilled pigeon.

  He looks over at me and swats me on the shoulder. “You okay, kiddo?”

  “Tired,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

  Thomas scoops up a handful of pebbles and shuffles them around in his hand. He sifts a couple of pebbles back onto the ground through the hole between his thumb and his forefinger. “Okay,” he says. “Just checking.” He says it in the way that people talk to damaged goods, and I don’t want to be damaged goods. But obviously I am.

  Thomas heads inside, and I’m left sitting on the gravel, pondering bird families. Somewhere out there, a pigeon dad is in mourning for his son. He is wondering what he could have done differently, like tell his kid to stop playing on trailer park roofs. And he wonders: Where do all the bird memories go after death?

  And what happens when you die? Do you just stop breathing?

  Try to imagine: You are breathing. Then you stop. Breathing.

  Forever.

  I’M STILL SITTING outside, trying to get a grip, when Laurelei’s old olive Chevy spirals a cloud of dust toward me as it pulls in to the covered spot next to the trailer.

  Aisha springs from the passenger seat like a totally different person than she was yesterday. Laurelei waves at me and heads inside, and Aisha jogs over.

  “I know, I know. You hate meditation,” she says. “But that was … That was seriously serious. I’m all, like, Zen’d out and shit.”

  I recline on the gravel, my elbows scratching against the rocks, which is not at all comfortable. Aisha kneels down the way basketball coaches kneel to check out a hurt player. Elbows on knees. Calves flexed.

  “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “You don’t really look that okay.”

  I look up at her and I don’t know what gets communicated, but in about a half a second she’s yanking me to my feet and we’re walking away from the trailer.

  We silently stroll the dirt ring of the trailer park, past a trailer that has multicolored toilets in front of it, like some sort of art project gone terribly wrong.

  “You wanna talk about it?” she asks.

  “It’s stupid. I don’t know what it is,” I say. “It’s just …”

  “Yeah,” she says, and I have a feeling she doesn’t have a clue what “it” is. Since I definitely don’t.

  I concentrate on kicking up dust as we continue to walk. All the trailers are covered with crazy, tacky stuff that’s hard to categorize. Street signs taken from the side of roads; macramé masks that would make a two-year-old cry; lonely, forlorn lawn ornaments; and other castoffs from the isle of misfit trash. I feel like I belong here.

  I keep walking, and finally I begin to think that if I don’t say something, Aisha’s gonna just decide I’m fine, and I’m not fine. Part of me wants that, for her to not know what’s going on in my brain. Another part of me is so fucking tired of people not knowing.

  So I just talk. “Do you think, like, pigeons mourn when a family member is shot?”

  “You and your birds.” She laughs. I don’t, though, and she stops laughing when she realizes that I’m not.

  We stop walking. She looks into my eyes, and I avert them from hers.

  “I’m such a loser,” I blurt. “All Thomas did was, like, shoot a pigeon off his roof with a BB gun, and my head got all wacked, and —”

  I look down at the dusty road beneath us. I say, “I’m a loser and a freak and an idiot.”

  Aisha does the weirdest thing. She puts her hand on my forearm and squeezes. She speaks really softly, which I don’t expect from her. “I feel messed up sometimes too,” she says, looking directly in my eyes.

  I can’t quite return the look. “You?” I ask the ground.

  “Ugly,” she says. “I feel ugly.”

  “You are the least ugly person in the world, and you can trust me on that one.” I am studying a patch of gravel-less dirt. It’s so much easier to talk without eye contact.

  “You are the least loser person in the world,” she says, but I just can’t believe those are the same thing. I am definitely more loser than she is ugly.

  I know that if I say that, she’ll just tell me again I’m not a loser. And that won’t make even a little bit of difference in my mind, because I know I’m at least something of a loser, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I don’t say anything. I just continue to feel her hand on my forearm, which now feels good, actually. Not in like a sexual way. Just in the way of something that feels nice.

  She lets go, and we stand in the dust, close to each other, like we need to stay close now. I am finally able to look up into her eyes.

  “We’re wounded,” she says softly.

  A funny idea crosses my mind. Maybe a joke will always cross my mind. I imagine two soldiers in a bunker during a war. There’s a huge explosion and one of them loses his head. It explodes off and lands in his friend’s lap. And the friend looks down at the head, and the head says to him, “We’re wounded.”

  But I don’t say that, because it’s the wrong thing and the wrong time.

  “I know,” I say.

  “I’ll help you, you help me,” she says, and I have to admit I like the way that sounds.

  We find a place to sit in the shade, and we just hang for a bit until I feel be
tter. Then we finish our lap of the park and go back to the trailer. Thomas and Laurelei are sitting on the couch where Aisha slept. I pretend I didn’t just have this meltdown about pigeon shooting, and Thomas is cool and acts like I didn’t too. We sit down and shoot the shit for a bit, and then Thomas and Laurelei share this look and she nods to him.

  “So we have a little news for you,” Thomas says.

  “We were just talking it over and it came back to me,” Laurelei says. “Peter and Lois Clancy in Salt Lake City. Russ went to them after he left us. We knew them way back when from those religious conferences.”

  Aisha pulls out her phone like it’s a revolver from a holster. Thomas stops her. “We have all the information you need,” he says. “We just called them. You ready for this? Lois absolutely remembers your grandfather, and she says she’d love to see you.”

  “What did she say?” I blurt. “Does she know where he is?”

  “She said they lost touch, but she has something of his she wants you to have.”

  I look at Aisha, wondering whether she’d even consider a drive to Salt Lake City. “What is it? Can she tell us over the phone?”

  “She said it would really mean a lot to her to meet you.”

  “But Salt Lake City is like …” And then I stop talking, because it’s embarrassing that I have no real idea of how far away it is. Out West, everything seems super far apart.

  Aisha is on her phone. “About eight hours,” she says. “Give or take.”

  Thomas nods. “That’s about right.”

  I think about our options. We can go back to Billings and be there in a few hours. We won’t solve the mystery of my grandfather, but … Well, that’s it, I guess. Or we can drive to Salt Lake City and meet someone who knew him. Who has something for me. They may have lost touch, but at least it will take us a step closer.

  Aisha must be thinking the same thing, because she says, “I’m game.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes, really,” she says.

  Thomas says, “If you leave now, you’ll be there by eight, even if you stop a few times. Lois said they’d be happy to put you up.”

  My mind spins with the possibilities. What could she possibly have to give me? This is irresponsible. We haven’t needed to get gas yet, but if we go farther, we will. What about food? We’re definitely going to need to start using the credit card a whole lot. But then I figure, What the hell? What’s the worst thing that could happen?

  I look at Aisha. “You sure you’re up for sixteen more hours of driving round-trip?”

  She smiles and shrugs. “You got the funds, I got the wheels. Let’s go.”

  I pull out my phone and text my mom.

  Hey mom, on the road,

  doing great. How’s dad?

  He’s doing Bette.

  Better. Sorry. He has more energy today.

  Good! Okay if we take another day?

  She’s going to say no. There’s just no way she’s going to be okay with me being off with a girl I hardly know, who she hardly knows, wandering the Wild West while my dad is —

  I suppose one more day would be finish

  Fine I mean. I hate this silver

  Silly sorry

  iPhone. Always charges what I type.

  I don’t answer right away. I’m getting what I want, so why be upset? And I’m not upset. It’s just. I don’t know. It’s too easy and it pisses me off, I guess.

  Thanks. Luv u.

  xo. Please consider calling your fate

  father

  Everyone’s looking at me, so I put on a smile. And then I realize I’m going to freaking Utah with Aisha, and the smile becomes a smile for real.

  “So, off to Salt Lake City,” Laurelei says. “You’re taking your grandfather’s journey.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. We’re following in his footsteps all these years later.

  Thomas gives Aisha the address and phone number. Then he quickly pens a note to the Clancys, thanking them for their hospitality.

  “Now these are real religious folks,” Thomas says, his tone a bit wary. “Can I count on you two to tone it down a bit?”

  I look at Aisha, because I figure she’s the problem more than me, what with the whole lesbian angle. But then I realize they’re all looking at me.

  “What?” I say. My jaw gets tight, but they won’t stop looking at me, so I finally just say, “Fine, fine.”

  It doesn’t take much for us to pack up our things, and Thomas notices. He says, “Take the sweatpants. Both of you.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Absolutely. You thought you were on a day trip. In fact —” He holds up a finger and disappears into the bedroom, and then he calls Laurelei in. After a few minutes, they return with a pile of shirts, some toiletries, and a ratty old canvas bag.

  “There’s no way you’d fit in any of our shorts or pants,” he says. “But the shirts should do in a pinch.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and Aisha says it too.

  They walk us out to the Neon. Laurelei fawns all over Aisha, asking her did she get everything, is she sure we don’t want to stay for lunch, does she want to shower. They exchange phone numbers, just in case.

  “Man, I’m gonna miss you guys,” Aisha says, burying her head in Thomas’s shoulder in a hug. I feel both glad for her that she felt so at home here, and a little sad that it didn’t work out that way for me exactly.

  Laurelei takes my hand and squeezes good-bye. When she unclasps and lets my hand go, I look up and she is smiling at me, Thomas right behind her. There’s this pang in my chest that I don’t expect. He creases his lips in a way that tells me he’s sorry our visit is over. I am too.

  “Thanks again for the stuff,” Aisha says.

  Laurelei beams. “Don’t mention it.”

  We get in the car, and the Neon kicks up trailer park dust as we take off.

  “Bless you!” Laurelei yells to us.

  “Bless you too!” Aisha yells back as we take a left out of the place.

  I look at her. “Oh my God,” I say. “ ‘Bless you’? Next thing you’re going to tell me you no longer believe in the Porcupine of Truth. Which would be unfortunate, as it is, you know, the Porcupine. Of Truth.”

  She grins. “I would never deny the existence of the Porcupine.”

  We get back on the rural highway, heading south toward I-80. Wyoming is the windiest place I’ve ever been; even with the windows up, we can barely hear Fitz and the Tantrums over the gusts that whip across our windshield. We zoom past miles and miles of nothing but sagebrush, which I start calling the “broccoli of the West” as we pass cowless pastures filled with it. This makes Aisha smile.

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen on this trip?” I say, deadpan. “The Clancys are psycho killers and they kill us. Or they don’t kill us, but they sell us into the sex trade.”

  Aisha shoots me a look. “Don’t be such a pessimist.”

  I point at myself as if taken aback. “Me? Hardly. I’m an optimist. The biggest optimist. Eternal, even. If I were an eye doctor, I’d open a practice called The Eternal Optometrist.”

  I can actually feel Aisha roll her eyes. “Don’t make me sorry I agreed to this before we leave Wyoming.”

  WHEN WE FINALLY arrive in Salt Lake City, it’s just before eight on Sunday night. We’ve driven straight through without stopping for food so we can get to the Clancys’ before it gets too late. The city’s skyline at night is awesome — clean and crisp, like a Disney city — and I have to admit it’s nice to be back somewhere with actual tall buildings. Even a city named after a lake of salt.

  The address is in a crowded neighborhood on the north side of town, a tree-lined street packed with modern-looking houses. The Clancys’ home is older, with paint chipping off the door. I ring the bell, clutching the letter Thomas wrote, my head buzzing with anxiety. Aisha looks much more calm than I feel.

  We hear scampering feet, and then an elderly woman opens the door a
crack.

  “Hello?” she says. I can only see a sliver of her eye and nose.

  “Hi, are you Mrs. Clancy?” I say, my voice trembling.

  She opens the door a few inches wider, so we can see her lined face and wispy gray hair.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she whispers.

  I start to ask her why when a booming voice yells, “Lois, who is it?”

  She shakes her head at me and speaks louder this time. “No. We can’t help you.”

  She shuts the door.

  Aisha and I are left standing there on her front steps, bewildered.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  Aisha says, “I have absolutely no idea.”

  From inside the house, we hear a crotchety man’s voice.

  “They sent us a black lesbian. Goodness gracious.”

  Aisha and I look at each other, mouths wide open.

  “He wasn’t even at the door,” I say. “How the hell would he know —”

  She bites her lip. They must have learned this from the Leffs, and I feel a twinge of anger that the Leffs would have told them that information. Not to mention sending us to stay with a bunch of racist homophobes.

  “That sucks,” I say.

  Aisha shrugs. “After a while you just stop listening,” she says.

  Part of me wants to pound on the door and tell the Clancys that they’re hypocrites, hiding their hate behind a God who is supposed to be loving. But Aisha says, “C’mon,” and we walk back to the car and sit there in silence.

  I wish I could be half as strong as Aisha. Things that would destroy me just seem to bounce off her.

  “So what do we do now?” I ask.

  She thinks for a moment. “Do we go back to Billings?”

  My stomach twists. I’m hungry and I’m tired and the idea of driving another ten or so hours right now is too much to take.

  “Maybe we stay at a hotel?”

  As Aisha considers this, her phone rings.

  “It’s Laurelei and Thomas,” she says, and I perk up.

  “Hey,” Aisha answers, and she puts the phone on speaker. “We can both hear you,” she tells them.

  “Oh hi,” Laurelei says. “I’m so sorry, guys. I’m furious right now about how the Clancys behaved. She just called me and told me. I’m mortified.”