Fallout

He shrugs. Depends on if they

  think you were kidnapped or

  split on your own. Hey, do you

  suppose they’ll do an Amber Alert?

  God, I never thought about that.

  Kidnapping? “I don’t want you

  to get into trouble. Maybe you

  should just take me back.”

  Zero hesitation. No damn way.

  I’m not sure where to go or how

  we’ll get by, but one way or

  another, we will be together.

  APPROACHING THE FLAT FIELDS

  Of Bakersfield, I can’t help but think

  about home—Dad’s sorry old place.

  Empty right now is my guess, with

  Dad in lockup and Kortni most likely

  working. Just in case, I make a test

  call. No answer. “Take me home, okay?”

  I don’t think that’s such a good idea.

  Why do you want to go there? But as

  we near the exit, he slows down.

  “I want to leave a note, tell them

  I haven’t been kidnapped. And I know

  where Kortni stashes her mad money.”

  He hesitates, considers the note.

  Just say you’re okay. Maybe that

  you were afraid living back there.

  Good idea. Even if Walter didn’t

  do anything, making them think

  he might have is a good excuse

  for taking off. And it just might

  keep him from taking a chance

  on future bad behavior. Ka-ching.

  KYLE EXITS THE FREEWAY

  Swings in the correct direction.

  “What about your dad?” I ask.

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  We are bumping along the dirt

  by the time he answers. He won’t

  even know I’m gone for a week.

  Any other week, maybe. But,

  “Uh … Christmas. Remember?

  Anyway, your sister would notice.”

  He thinks for a while, and I see

  his shoulders slump slightly.

  Forgot about Christmas.

  Sadie will miss me for sure.

  Then he brightens. At least

  I’ll get to spend it with you.

  Anyway, holidays bring out

  the asshole in my dad. He starts

  drinking at breakfast, goes

  all day until after dessert or

  until he passes out. And every

  drink just makes him meaner.

  AS WE PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY

  I think about my own dad’s drinking.

  He starts early, finishes late. But

  he doesn’t very often get mean.

  Maybe that’s ’cause he mostly

  drinks beer. But I don’t think

  his mean streak is very big.

  Maybe when he gets out of

  jail we can figure out how to

  grow closer. That would mean

  coming back from … wherever

  Kyle and I end up. It would also

  mean forgiveness on both sides.

  Forgiveness isn’t my best thing.

  Easier staying pissed. But I’m

  tired of being pissed all the time.

  Tired of feeling hurt by stuff that

  can never be fixed because it is

  an indelible part of the past.

  KYLE STAYS IN THE TRUCK

  While I circle around back, where

  I know a certain window has a broken

  lock. I left my house key in Fresno

  with the rest of my meager possessions.

  I shimmy up the dilapidated vinyl siding,

  squeeze through the smallish opening,

  drop into my old bedroom. An odd pang

  of homesickness presses, weight

  enough to make my eyes water. Why

  am I so sad? I hate this place. Hate

  what it represents—the threadbare

  remnants of my childhood, few enough

  happy memories woven into that cloth.

  A strange foreboding chills me, and

  I creep into the hallway. “Is someone

  here?” I call, though I know the place

  is empty. Ghosts. That’s all. They smell

  of old tobacco. Dribbled beer. Cheap

  perfume. Detritus-caked dishes left

  to molder in the kitchen sink. Trash.

  I sneak into my dad’s bedroom, a thief

  who has already cased the place. I know

  where the spare change jar is kept beneath

  the canvas liner in the clothes hamper.

  Sometimes there’s more than change

  in the jar, and this is one of those times.

  Kortni’s tips have been good lately,

  and without Dad’s bad habits to support,

  she has squirreled away almost four

  hundred dollars. I take a fistful, leave

  the rest to help replace the clothes

  I borrow. She’s a little bigger than me.

  But baggy is better than nothing, and

  nothing is what I have now. Two pairs

  of jeans. A couple of sweatshirts.

  A plaid flannel shirt. Underwear.

  That’s the creepiest thing, but panties

  are expensive. At least they’re clean.

  I help myself to five pair, trying not to

  think about what has worn them.

  Finally I go to the kitchen, find paper

  and a Sharpie, write a note: I am okay.

  Have not been kidnapped. I had to

  leave Fresno because Walter scared

  me. Tell Shreeveport to keep an eye

  on him. I had to borrow a few bucks

  and some of your clothes. Promise

  to pay you back. Love, Summer.

  I GATHER UP

  The fragments

  of my shattered

  dignity. Exit through

  the front door, paper

  bag filled with

  pilfered necessities

  heavy in my hand.

  I look at the horizon,

  hung low with charcoal

  clouds. Storm gestating.

  Kyle waits, fingers

  thrumming impatiently

  against the steering

  wheel. Can’t say

  I blame him. We

  really must go. Need to

  run. One chapter closed.

  Another almost begun.

  THREE HUN IN HAND

  We chance a quick stop at Wal-Mart.

  I’ve been thinking about which way

  to go, Kyle says. I think we should head

  up Highway 395. No one will expect us

  to take that route. Not this time of year.

  There are lots of places we can camp,

  and I could probably find work at

  Mammoth, once the ski resort opens.

  But I think we’ll have to sleep in my truck,

  at least until I can make enough money

  to get us a place. It’s going to be cold up

  there. We’ll need two good sleeping bags.

  A little food. Cereal. Jerky. Nuts.

  Or maybe trail mix. Water. Flashlight

  and spare batteries. Toilet paper.

  Toilet paper? Seriously? Logistically,

  this is terrifying. I’m not exactly

  a mountain man (woman?). But I go

  along, hoping we don’t blow our entire

  money stash. We hurry the cart

  through the store. As we pass

  the feminine products section, it hits

  me that maybe it’s the right time

  of the month to consider tampons.

  But how do I buy them with Kyle?

  How do I manage a period camped

  out in the bitter-cold wilderness?

  My resolution to make this happen
>
  falters. But then I look at Kyle,

  who is totally determined to see it

  through. I grab the tampons,

  throw them into the cart. And,

  knowing my body the way I do,

  I add a small bottle of generic

  ibuprofen. Last thing Kyle needs

  is to hear me bitch about cramps.

  I blush when he smiles at my

  selections. But he only shrugs,

  puts a box of condoms into the cart.

  KYLE’S EXCITEMENT

  Is palpable, obvious

  in the way he moves.

  Every security camera

  here is probably focused

  on him right now. He might

  be buying Christmas presents.

  Except who wants trail mix for

  Christmas? Or, uh, condoms?

  Oh, well. We’re not doing

  anything wrong. Wait.

  Inaccurate. Okay, I

  don’t feel like

  we’re doing

  anything wrong.

  Even if we happen

  to be paying for all this

  stuff with “borrowed” money.

  Could someone define “wrong”?

  Is it wrong to take someone else’s

  money so you can eat? Wrong

  to leave relative security in

  favor of unknown risk

  at the side of some-

  one you love?

  SUPPLIES STOWED

  Kyle checks out the map, decides

  we should go by way of Lake Isabella.

  It’s only about an hour from here, and

  we can find a cheap campground there.

  Highway 178 follows the meandering

  Kern. We’ve been this way before.

  And when we pass the place we first

  made love, Kyle reaches to take my hand.

  I’ll never forget that day, he says.

  It changed everything. You changed

  everything. I thought love was bullshit.

  Something made up for TV and movies.

  “Me too. Or that people just repeated

  those words to get them what they

  wanted.” Sex. Drugs. Money. “You

  always say the right thing, know that?”

  If he had passed “our” spot and

  said nothing, I would have seriously

  questioned what I’m doing here.

  Instead, I watch darkness descend,

  a rain of night in the headlights,

  washing away apprehension. Too

  late to worry now, anyway. Might

  as well soak up Kyle, enjoy the ride.

  WE FIND A FIVE-DOLLAR

  Per-night campground. Some are free,

  Kyle informs me. But this one has toilets.

  That’s worth five dollars, don’t you think?

  “Definitely. And since they’re here,

  I’m going to pee.” The night air makes

  me shiver. I slip into Kortni’s oversize

  sweatshirt, grab the flashlight to show

  me the way, happy to have both. When

  I get back to camp, Kyle is messing

  with a campfire. Someone left a few

  sticks of firewood, he says. Nice of

  them. Too dark to be hunting for it now.

  I sit on a big log, watching him work to

  start it. Before long, a small flame slithers

  up thin sticks of kindling, licking at a log.

  Kyle’s face is handsome in the building

  firelight. Rugged. “You remind me of

  a cowboy. Or maybe a fur trapper.”

  He laughs, sits next to me. Guess that

  makes you the lonely schoolteacher

  waiting for me to come ravage you.

  He kisses me, and it is sweet, despite

  the smell of his smoke-stung clothes.

  Too soon, he pulls away. Hungry?

  I nod, and he goes to the truck,

  brings back nuts. Jerky. Water

  to wash both down with. I chew

  for a while. Finally I notice Kyle

  hasn’t touched the skimpy feast.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. Maybe later.

  I’m not really hungry right now.

  He goes to poke at the fire.

  I close the bags carefully. Gulp

  water, wishing I’d thought to buy

  a toothbrush. “Are you scared?”

  You kidding? Even if we get caught,

  it’s worth it. Being with you like this?

  Fire’s low. Come on. He has already

  rolled out the sleeping bags in the back

  of the truck. We climb in, and under

  a meadow of stars, my cowboy ravages me.

  BIRDSONG WAKES ME

  Loud birdsong. A regular death metal

  concert of birdsong, in fact. I keep

  my eyes closed, snuggle into my bed.

  Hard bed. A waterfall of light. Outside.

  Sleeping bag. Cold metal beneath me.

  And I am alone. I jump into a sitting

  position, quieting the avian cacophony.

  A flutter of wings. “Kyle? Where are you?”

  An acrid drift of tobacco assaults

  my nose just as I hear, Over here.

  He squats to one side of the fire pit,

  trying to resurrect the dead embers.

  Smoking. God. Cigarettes are, like,

  seven bucks a pack. He needs to

  kick that habit, and quickly. I slide

  from the warmth of the sleeping bag,

  into frosty December morning.

  Go over to give him a kiss, steeling

  myself against the stench of smoke.

  But another, more insidious smell

  leaks from his pores, despite

  the cold. “Did you do crystal?”

  His eyes, onyx-pupiled and crimson-

  rimmed, are all the answer I need.

  A bubble of anger rises. Pops.

  Deep breath. “You did, didn’t you?”

  He drops his gaze to the still-dead fire.

  Just a little. Maintenance, you know.

  A narrow column of bubbles lifts.

  Pop-pop. “No. I really don’t know.”

  I’m down to a taste a couple times

  a day. Keeps my head on straight.

  A thick stream of bubbles. Pop. Pop.

  Pop-pop. “Fine. Then I want to try it.”

  His head shakes so hard, it must

  rattle his brain. Don’t want you to.

  The bubbles become a low fizz.

  It makes my eyes sting. “Why not?”

  His eyes float up. He is crying

  too. Because I love you too much.

  Hunter

  COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS

  Less than two days to go.

  Rick Denio being a brick

  back in his native Texas,

  I’m pulling a double air

  shift.

  Morning drive wrapped

  up, midday well underway,

  I am pouring a hefty shot

  of vanilla International Delight

  into

  a strong cup of coffee

  when the studio phone

  rings. On the far end

  of the line, an extremely

  high-

  sounding girl inquires

  if I’d like some company.

  “Leah. I told you to leave

  me the hell alone.” I

  gear

  up to say something much

  stronger when I notice

  the mic is on. Just perfect.

  Good thing the music’s loud.

  “Go

  away,” I tell her, mic muted.

  How many ways are there

  to say no, anyway?

  I’VE TOLD HER NO

  At least a
dozen times

  in the last three weeks.

  No.

  I don’t want to see her,

  even if I am single right now.

  No.

  I don’t want to smoke up

  with her. Sort of trying to quit.

  No.

  I don’t want sex with her,

  not even no-strings-attached sex.

  Now

  if I could just get Nikki

  to hear me tell her no.

  How

  could I manage that? Strong-

  arm her, maybe? My life is

  full of

  women who refuse to listen

  to me! Is this how serial killers

  are born? Whoa. Where did that

  bullshit

  come from? I’m not even close

  to some crazed ax murderer.

  Am I?

  NO, I’M NOT

  I admit anger is a regular visitor.

  It reminds me of some alien

  vine implanted through my belly

  button. It seems to germinate

  in the pit of my stomach,

  grow at warp speed, shooting

  out tendrils to snake through

  my veins, into my brain, where

  it blooms into all-out rage.

  But that would never make

  me pick up a weapon and use

  it, especially never on a girl.

  Not even one who refuses to

  return my phone calls. Or my love.

  SHE STILL LOVES ME

  I know she does. Boy,

  I never thought forgiveness

  would come so hard to her.

  I give the top-of-the-hour

  station ID, say a few witty

  words about shopping

  procrastinators. Once the music

  kicks back in, I call Nikki.

  Who apparently isn’t home.

  Whatever. Maybe it’s better

  to leave her a message. She’d

  probably hang up on me.

  “Nik, I swear I’m not stalking

  you. But please, please listen.

  What I did was worse than

  wrong. It was unconscionable.

  I have never loved anyone

  the way I love you. And I

  don’t think I ever will. You

  are the most important thing

  in my life. Without you,

  I’m empty. Please forgive

  me. I swear, I’ll earn back

  your trust. Can we just talk?”

  I COULD GO ON

  But that’s all the machine wants

  to hear at one time, and if I call back,

  I’ll definitely sound like a stalker.