by Brady Hammes
She was drinking her wine and staring at the shining city by the lake when she saw two men standing in the street below. They looked like they were involved in some business that might interest her, so she stepped onto the balcony and called down to them. The men scanned the street for a few seconds before they located the voice above them. “Hey,” Sam yelled softly, careful not to wake her parents.
“What?” the tall one asked, squinting to get a look at the woman standing above him.
“What are you doing down there?”
“None of your business,” the tall one said.
“Don’t talk to her,” the shorter one said.
“I have a question for you,” Sam said. “Wait there, I’ll be right down.”
GAVIN
HE MADE IT TO DENVER then continued east, wondering what exactly to do with everything he’d learned about his sister. Heroin? Who the hell gets hooked on heroin? He hadn’t exactly been a shining example of a drug-free lifestyle, but he always understood there to be an invisible yet implied line separating recreational drug use from the dark underworld of intravenous abuse. How could she be so careless? He felt a flush of anger that was quickly replaced by the kind of deep fear that forced him to imagine, with great clarity, the death of someone he loved. Because there was no way to think about his sister doing heroin without imagining his sister overdosing on it. He knew very little about the drug, aside from what he’d seen in movies, but it was enough to know that it killed people, very easily, often due to some careless measuring.
He considered his options. He couldn’t tell his parents, at least not until he spoke with Sam first. He couldn’t tell anyone really, and that’s what troubled him most. This wasn’t something that could be sorted out with a phone call. Marie had been fairly vague regarding the extent of Sam’s use, though it was obviously troubling enough to warrant a phone call. If she was truly addicted—and by now he’d convinced himself she was—she would find more drugs regardless of whatever obstacle he threw in her path. He didn’t want to do anything that might alienate her, destroy his opportunity to talk some sense into her, and so he decided he wouldn’t call, at least not right now. He needed to think this through, formulate a plan, though he had no idea what that might be. His relationship with his siblings operated best when it avoided confrontation, which had been the default arrangement for most of their adult lives, though now it seemed they were headed for some kind of reckoning. What that might look like Gavin couldn’t say, though he suspected it would involve acknowledging his own complicity in Sam’s drug use.
As a teenager, Gavin had been unpopular by most social metrics, and a good portion of his high school years had been spent trying to remake his image into that of someone desirable and hip. He quickly realized that the most effective way to accomplish this was through the consumption of drugs and alcohol, which he enjoyed mostly for the social currency they provided. And while his stories about smoking pot at the movie theater or barfing in the McDonald’s drive-thru helped him ascend the ranks of Palatine High, they fell flat when recounted to his little sister, whose commitment to dance was absolute. But now, thinking back on it, he wondered if he’d planted some toxic seed that had lain dormant for a time, finally blooming all these years later. Because he’d been the one to extol the magic of pharmaceuticals after her dance injury, and he’d been the one to offer nips from his flask when they went to shows at the Fireside Bowl. The memories came flooding back, and he felt something cold lodge itself in his chest, blotting out his romantic concerns, which now seemed annoyingly inconsequential in light of his sister. But as much as the news was awful and terrifying and guilt-inducing, it was also liberating in a strange way, because he now felt a sense of purpose, something that needed his attention. He bumped the cruise control to eighty, switched lanes, and overtook a Walmart tractor trailer.
He guessed he was about twelve hours from Chicago, eleven if he pushed it. This stretch of Nebraska was a flat, dry charge through fields of corn, and after hours of uneven mountain, driving it seemed easy, almost automatic. He usually enjoyed mindless interstate driving, but what had begun as a meditative silence had devolved into a harrowing anxiety over all the things he couldn’t control. Overhead, the sun was a dull splotch obscured by clouds. The flat, colorless horizon seemed like an apt approximation of his inner life, and he felt justified in his sulking, as opposed to in L.A., where he was expected to purge his sadness by gallivanting in the sun.
His phone rang. It was Mariana. “Hey.”
“You left,” she said. This was an accusation, not a question.
“I told you I was leaving.”
“I assumed you would say goodbye first.”
“I thought I did.”
She sighed. “So what’s your plan?”
“I’m driving to Chicago,” he said, watching cows congregate around a half-frozen pond.
“Obviously. I meant after that.”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But not back here?”
“It seems unlikely,” Gavin said. “I think we’re both better off if we don’t see each other for a while.”
It was quiet for a moment. He hoped maybe she was changing her mind about the wedding. “I guess I can’t blame you if you decide not to come back,” she finally said. “I would love for you to be a part of this play, but I know that’s not fair of me to ask.”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it turn out like this.”
Gavin knew he shared responsibility for the situation, but he was enjoying his righteous indignation and didn’t want to ruin the moment by acknowledging his own complicity. What was it that made him so toxic to women? He remembered Renee’s critique that he was more in love with the concept of marriage than he was in fostering a relationship that might result in marriage. It was a pretty damning indictment because the truth was that he did in fact have a very specific future mapped out in his mind—marriage by thirty-six (that deadline quickly approaching), first child by thirty-seven (preferably a boy) followed by a second (girl) a year or two later. And the fact that these milestones were all measured by his age rather than that of his partner was further evidence of his unmitigated selfishness. When presented this clearly, it was easy to see how he’d ruined two relationships in less than two weeks. “I should go,” he said, because there was nothing left to say. “I’m about to lose reception.”
* * *
—
HE MADE GOOD TIME through Nebraska, then passed, without notice, into Iowa. He stopped for a late lunch at what the billboards described as the World’s Largest Truck Stop, where he was greeted by a chubby hostess in a miniskirt. “Hi there,” she chirped. “Table for one?”
Gavin was led to a booth by a large window looking out at rows of gas pumps.
“You need a minute to look over the menu?” the waitress asked.
“I’ll have the tenderloin sandwich,” Gavin said.
The waitress nodded. “Something to drink?”
“IPA?”
“How about a Coors?”
“Sure.”
“You look familiar,” the waitress said. “Like someone I’ve seen on TV.” She studied him for a moment before delivering her verdict. “Jim.”
“What?” he asked.
“That’s who you look like. Jim. From The Office. You look like Jim with a beard.”
“John Krasinski,” Gavin said.
“Huh?”
“The actor’s name is John Krasinski.”
“Anyway, Jim,” she said, turning to leave. “I’ll be back with that beer.”
Gavin’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket: Home. “Hey, Mom.”
“It’s your sister.”
“Sam?”
“You only have one sister.”
“You’re back?” H
e heard voices and a television in the background, the familiar sounds of home.
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“I’m at the World’s Largest Truck Stop,” he said, looking around the restaurant. “In Iowa.”
“The world’s largest, huh? How do they measure such a thing?”
Gavin was pleased to find his sister capable of engaging in conversation. Just knowing that she was alive was a relief. “I don’t know,” he said, “but if you could see the place, you’d understand.”
“Why are you driving anyway?”
“I’ve been in New Mexico. It’s a long story. I’ll explain when I get there.”
“And when will that be?”
He looked at his watch. “Sometime this evening.”
Gavin heard a voice calling to Sam, followed by his sister’s muffled voice saying, “What?”
“Sam?” he said.
“Mom wants to know if you’ll be here in time for dinner.”
“It’s unlikely.”
“She says to hurry up and get here.” There was a pause. “But don’t speed.”
“I’ll call you guys when I’m close.”
He hung up. It was nice to hear Sam’s voice after so long. He realized just how much he missed her, how long it had been since they’d spent any prolonged time together outside of the holidays. It must have been two years ago, when he’d spent six weeks shooting a film in New York. It was the directorial debut of a guy he’d met through an improv group, and the two of them had worked on the script together for nearly a year before they began filming. It was a melancholic comedy about a twenty-eight-year-old magician finding his way after his young wife dies from ovarian cancer. The script was a strange assemblage of scenes, alternately hilarious and heartbreaking, and Gavin felt genuinely proud and excited for what might result. He was staying at a friend’s apartment in Chelsea, working during the week and spending his weekends touring the city with his sister.
As a kid, Sam’s social circle consisted of polite, carefully groomed young women from the dance world, but in New York she was living in some kind of hipster B&B run by a merry band of musicians and artists. She introduced Gavin to her boyfriend, Atticus, an anorexic-looking guy who spoke with the flat, measured drawl of a ranch hand. He reminded Gavin of a young Tom Waits.
They spent a Sunday afternoon day drinking with Sam’s friends at a dark bar in Williamsburg. Gavin was surprised and a little taken aback by the community she’d created, how her interests—which had always been singularly dance-focused—now encompassed so many things outside of ballet. These friends of hers, these shaggy-haired philosophers with dyslexic outfits—one of whom wore Winnie the Pooh pajamas under an orange windbreaker—seemed a little suspicious of Gavin’s art and the disagreeable fact of him being from Los Angeles, a city none of them had visited but which they viewed as a cultural abomination that deserved to be cast into the sea.
“So you’re shooting a movie here?” Atticus asked Gavin.
“Yeah,” Gavin said, “a little indie film.” He hoped the “indie” qualifier might engender some artistic currency, but the group seemed unimpressed.
“They were shooting something in my neighborhood the other day,” a pixie-haired girl announced. “They closed down my entire street for three hours. I fucking hate that shit. I mean, why do you have to shoot your shitty Sandra Bullock movie in Greenpoint?”
The rest of the group nodded in vigorous agreement, as if they too had suffered the injustices of the entertainment industry. Gavin felt them turning on him. They seemed to view him as a foot soldier in Hollywood’s evil empire, despite the film’s microscopic budget of five hundred thousand dollars, a pittance by Hollywood standards. He considered relaying this fact, but he suspected it was futile to defend himself. “It’s just a paycheck,” Gavin finally said a little dismissively, hoping to insulate himself from the group’s collective wrath.
“That’s not true,” Sam put in.
“What?” Gavin asked.
“It’s not just a paycheck,” she said to him with a level of defiance that surprised him. “You know it’s not.” Then, to the others, she said, “I visited Gavin on set the other day and met the director, who’s a super talented dude. He told me a little about the story and it sounds amazing. And my brother is a phenomenal actor, so I know it’ll be great.”
Sam stood from the table to go retrieve another round of beers. “Also,” she said, “I fucking adore Sandra Bullock.”
* * *
—
GAVIN FINISHED HIS MEAL, then explored the grounds of the world’s largest truck stop. Knowing that his sister was alive and safe at home eased the sense of urgency he’d felt earlier, and he took some time to stretch his legs before the final push to Chicago. There was a movie theater and a dental practice and a barbershop. The place looked like a frat house for long-haul truckers. He walked past the arcade, where two men were locked in an intense game of Cruisin’ USA, talking a good amount of shit between them. He heard the voice of a man shout, “Holcomb, shower’s up,” over the intercom, and the idea of a hot shower after twelve hours in the car seemed like a wonderful idea. He asked the man at the counter how it worked and was handed a clipboard on which he wrote his last name. He went back to his car and retrieved his Dopp kit and a clean pair of underwear. He bought a hotel-size bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo from a vending machine and used the two remaining quarters to play a clumsy game of pinball. When his name was finally called, he went to the bathroom and washed himself in lukewarm water, listening to the grunts of sleepy truckers struggling at the urinal.
When he was done, he helped himself to some gas station coffee and explored the gift shop, which wasn’t a gift shop so much as a Walmart in miniature. He made a lap through the store. There was a mannequin dressed in head-to-toe leather—boots, chaps, vest, even a leather cowboy hat—as if he’d murdered a cow and crawled inside. He hadn’t done any Christmas shopping yet, so he went searching for a few last-minute gifts. He bought a silver bangle for his mom and a wool blanket for his dad. He grabbed the leather cowboy hat for Jonah, a nice addition to the Indiana Jones image he believed his brother was cultivating. He picked up a pair of moccasins for Sam, ones very similar to the kind he’d seen people sporting back in Echo Park. Gavin hauled his wares to the woman at the register. “You need anything else, sweetheart?” she asked.
“This’ll do it,” Gavin said, placing his credit card on the counter.
The woman ran the card and then stuffed his items into a white plastic bag. “You have yourself a merry Christmas,” she said.
Gavin smiled. “Let’s hope.”
JONAH
HIS CASE WAS GONE. The carousel coughed up a planeload of luggage, but his bag never arrived. He watched his fellow passengers gather their suitcases and make their way toward customs. After thirty minutes, the belt finally sighed to a stop and he was left staring at an unclaimed stroller. There was always the possibility that it had been misrouted to another airport, where it sat in a holding cell with other lost luggage. Or there was the more likely possibility that it had been singled out for inspection by a snoopy German shepherd with a nose for raw ivory and was now being examined by a team of customs agents, who were connecting the dots from the case to its owner. He imagined trying to explain to Slinky that his cargo was now in the possession of the U.S. government. He could sketch out a semi-plausible story involving X-ray machines and airport security and possibly jail time, but even if Slinky spared his life, there was almost no possibility he could return to Gabon. There was almost no possibility this would end well, and he had no one to blame but himself. The fact remained that there was only one way out of this airport, so he grabbed his backpack and joined the line for U.S. Citizens. It was shortly after noon when he reached the kiosk. The customs officer—a doughy fellow with a buzz cut—took his passport and declaration form and inspected the
m for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. “Where are you coming from?”
“Gabon. But I had a layover in Paris.”
“What was the reason for your visit?”
“Research. I’m a student. Graduate student.”
The man studied his passport, then looked back up at Jonah. “Apparently, there’s an issue with your luggage.”
“Okay.”
The officer motioned to another uniformed man for assistance. The second man was a decade older and gave the impression of being in charge of deciding who was allowed back in the country. He looked over the printout, then down at Jonah’s passport and finally back to Jonah. “You’re missing a suitcase, Mr. Brennan.” It was not a question.
Jonah nodded.
“Come with me.”
So this was how it would end: at the airport, two days before Christmas, culminating in a sad phone call to his mother explaining why he wouldn’t make it home for Christmas, how he’d be spending the next ten Christmases in prison. It was ridiculous to think he could get away with such a foolhardy plan. The customs official led him through baggage claim, but instead of a holding room, they arrived at the Air France baggage office, where he was greeted by an austere female airline employee. “Mr. Brennan,” she said, typing something into her computer. She didn’t bother looking up.
“Yes?”
“It’s about your suitcase,” she said evenly.
“What’s the problem?”
She continued punching violently at the keyboard, apparently engaged in a few different tasks. “It’s too heavy.”
Jonah wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. “What?”
She finally looked up from the computer. “Your case weighs over eighty pounds. The limit is fifty. We usually give a little leeway if it’s a few pounds over, but yours is much too heavy.”
