“And I want your guarantee,” says Chuck, “that I won’t have anymore bounty hunters running around my parking lot.”
“He’s a courier!”
“Whatever you want to call him, I don’t want anybody running around here.”
“No running.”
“And no more reckless driving.”
“Got it. Are we done here?”
“No,” says Forest. “I think you owe Madge an apology.”
Chuck and Emilio nod in agreement. Madge gathers her bathrobe in front and straightens her posture.
“But . . .”
Forest shakes his head woefully and crosses his arms.
I have but one choice: swim with the current. “I’m sorry, Madge,” I announce. “It was an accident. I didn’t know that chocolate was . . . you know, not good for cats or whatever. I should’ve told you.”
Madge undresses me with her eyes through a blue cloud of menthol smoke. I can’t help but wonder if she was happy once. Or even young. She straightens her hair, and raises her chin up and sucks her cheeks in haughtily.
“Apology accepted,” she says.
“SO WAIT,” FOREST says, a half hour later at the Grill, where I’m abstaining in spite of happy hour. “You were lying that you didn’t poison the cat? Or lying that you did poison the cat? Or lying that it was an accident?”
“Forest, I’ve never touched her cat. Or siphoned her electricity or ashed in her gladiolus or pissed in her agapanthus, or anything else. She’s crazy.”
“And what’s all this about bounty hunters?”
“Nothing. Collections. An old phone bill.”
“You need a loan?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Forest sips his beer and looks around the bar, nodding to someone in back. “So, how’s work?” he says.
“Good.”
“That’s good.”
I’m not sure why I always lie to Forest, whether I don’t wish to burden him with my never-ending difficulties or because I’m afraid of disappointing him. After a long moment of uneasy silence, it’s clear to me that something is weighing on Forest.
“I fucked up, Benji,” he says, at last. “I fucked up bad.”
“What do you mean?”
He bows his head a little and stares down at the tabletop and shakes his head slowly.
“What is it?”
He lifts his head and looks me steadily in the eye, and I see that his eyes are moist.
“I cheated on Melissa,” he says.
I’m breathless. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I fucked up big-time, Benji. And I hate myself for it. God, I hate myself.” He slumps at the shoulders and looks back down at the table top, where he spins his glass slowly counterclockwise.
“With who?”
“Gina at work. Big Gina.”
“You had sex with her at work?”
“We didn’t have sex. I just kissed her.”
“Just once?”
“Yeah. But it’s the principle, Ben. Kissing her, sleeping with her, having a crush on her, talking to her about Melissa—it’s all the same.”
“Have you told Melissa?”
“No.”
“Are you gonna tell her?”
“I have to.”
“You don’t, Forest. Really, listen to me, you don’t.”
“I do. I owe it to her.”
“You do fucking not!” I say, loud enough to arouse the attention of the adjacent table.
Forest is confused by my tone.
“You’ll only make things worse,” I explain. “Trust me. You’re not going to do it again, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then let it lie, Forest. Anything you tell her about what happened, you’re telling her for your own sake. Because you’re not doing her any favors. You’re not doing anyone any favors. This I fucking know.”
“She deserves to know, Ben.”
“That what? That you’re full of remorse?”
“That I broke our trust.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“How is that stupid?”
“Suppose I hadn’t told Janet the truth: that I wasn’t really sure what happened, whether I left the car in neutral or whether it popped out of gear. Suppose I had just kept my mouth fucking shut on that count?”
I’ve managed to arouse the discomfort of the party next to us again. I subdue myself momentarily, avoiding eye contact, scratching at the cardboard surface of Forest’s castoff coaster.
“Suppose this,” I resume calmly. “Suppose I just told Janet the car popped out of gear, that it was a freak accident? How did my telling her I wasn’t sure change anything for the better?”
Forest doesn’t have a ready answer. He just keeps spinning his glass counterclockwise as though he wishes it were a clock.
“Do you suppose it was comforting for Janet to know that it might have been my fault, Forest, that I might have caused it? That by trusting me with her children, she caused it? Did it help her to push away the one fucking person in the world who could ever possibly understand her loss?”
Sad-eyed, Forest looks up from his imaginary clock. “I’m sorry, Ben. I mean, that everything worked out the way it did. But this is different. That was an accident.”
“Of course it was. And Big Gina was an accident.”
“Big Gina was a mistake.”
“And you paid for it. You’re paying right now. You’re living with it. Why make Melissa live with it?”
Forest stops spinning his glass long enough to take a pull off it and shake his head in disappointment.
“Sometimes you lie, Forest. Sometimes it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t believe that, Ben.”
“And why is that?”
“It always catches up with you.”
“It doesn’t, not always.”
“It does.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s the truth, Ben.”
“No, Forest, it’s another kind of lie. If Lizzie draws you a picture of a catfish and it looks like a big hairy turd, what do you tell her? That it looks like shit? That you could draw a better fucking catfish with a crayon up your asshole? No, Forest, you tell her it’s the most beautiful catfish you ever saw, don’t you? Of course you do. Truth’s a slippery slope sometimes.”
Forest stops his spinning at last and fingers his mustache, looking at once thoughtful and mildly amused as he stares at the tabletop. “You have a strange way of putting it, but thanks, Benji boy.” He reaches across the table and pats my shoulder, then takes a healthy swig of beer and sets his empty glass back down on the table.
Knowing that I’ve influenced Forest in some small way is almost enough to make me feel like I’m more than a shadow.
“Well, I better be getting home,” he says.
“But it’s dart night.”
“I’m just not feelin’ it tonight, Benji.” He pats me on the shoulder again as he gets up to leave. I wish I could go with him.
meet the replacement
I’ve been thinking about all the things I might have done differently. All the choices I didn’t make. All the decisions that made and unmade me, all the actions and inactions I did or didn’t take. With the shades drawn and the garbage overflowing, I’ve been thinking about all the bold steps I never took, all the gut instincts I didn’t listen to, all the people I let down. I’ve been thinking about the cruel mathematics of my life, looking at my sums and wishing I’d shown my work. From my station on the sofa, surrounded by pizza boxes, I’ve been thinking about all of it, and I’ve come to some conclusions: I hate this sofa. I hate this apartment. I hate Pizza Factory. And more than anything, I hate the options available to me.
Yesterday afternoon, the phone rings. It’s Trev.
“What’s up?” he says.
“Not a whole lot.”
An awkward silence ensues, during which I can
hear the drone of the television in the background.
“You mad at me?” he says, finally.
“Nah.”
“That’s cool,” he says. “Sorry. I mean, you know, for the way it worked out.”
“Not your fault,” I say. “She’s just looking out for you.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Another silence takes hold. The television drones on. I hear the click of the joystick, as he repositions his chair.
“So, what are you up to?” he says.
“Just playing catch-up,” I say. “Getting résumés together, that kind of thing.”
“Oh,” he says, and I can hear his disappointment clearly. But unlike the sort of disappointment I usually inspire, it occurs to me for once that I might actually control the outcome somehow, what however else I may have depleted, exhausted, or reduced my life to a heap of smoldering rubble, I still have the power not to disappoint.
When I arrive at Trev’s house, my replacement greets me at the front door. She has the look of a disgruntled gingerbread man—short-armed, about five feet tall and three feet wide, with thick cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Her bruised-purple hospital scrubs fail to strike a festive chord. She’s clutching Trev’s urine jug in one hand and a straw in the other. Clearly, someone wasn’t paying attention in class. Blinking twice in lieu of a greeting, she extends a stubby arm (the one holding the straw) to mark my passage, following on my heels through the gloomy dining room.
Trev awaits me in the living room, smiling behind his tray table. “Thanks, Jackie,” he says. “I’m good for now.”
Jackie blinks, sets the straw on the tray table, and stands at attention holding the urine receptacle.
I take a seat on the sofa, across from Trev. Almost immediately, the cat springs onto the couch and readies himself to curl up in my lap.
“Uh, I’m good for now, Jackie,” says Trev. “You can go read your magazine or whatever.”
To which Jackie blinks but makes no move.
Trev draws a slow breath and closes his eyes. “Good-bye, Jackie.”
Finally, Jackie retires to the dining room, receding into the shadows beyond the threshold, where she sits in the half darkness. As soon as she’s out of sight, Trev fashions his gnarled hand into something resembling a pistol, hoists it to shoulder level, and lowers his head slightly until the barrel is six inches from the side of his head. Clumsily, he pulls the trigger.
“That bad, huh?” I say softly.
“Worse than you can imagine.” He leans in closer. “Scalp-eater,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s retarded.”
“What do you mean ‘scalp-eater’?”
“Twice yesterday I caught her scratching her head—really going at it, I mean, pinching and digging like she was after something—and then, swear to God . . .”
“No.”
“Yes. Like a chimp.”
I wince. “Damn. And that’s the best they could do down at DSHS? What about the fat lady in sweats?”
“Unavailable.”
“The spiderweb dude?”
“Booked solid—that guy has like eight clients now.”
I whistle. “Wow.” Through the window I see Elsa crossing the front lawn.
“Look,” says Trev. “About the whole you-getting-fired thing. All I said was that we talked about it—not that we actually talked about it. Going to Utah, I mean. She just assumed the whole thing was your idea. Technically, she can’t fire you. I’m an adult and everything, so it’s supposed to be my call. But . . . I mean, the thing is . . .”
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to get my job back.”
He casts his eyes away toward the window. “Just so you know, she doesn’t have anything against you. It’s not personal.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
On cue, Elsa clomps up the ramp into the foyer, where she drops her tack bag on the linoleum and kicks her boots off. Releasing her hair from its bun and shaking it out, she crosses through the dining room, where Jackie is reading a magazine in the dim light.
“I’m home for the rest of the afternoon,” she says.
Jackie looks up from her magazine, blinking slowly twice.
“You’re free to go, Jackie.”
Absorbing this information, Jackie blinks once more, then begins gathering her things without a word.
“Don’t worry,” says Trev to Elsa, as she enters the living room. “He doesn’t want his job back.”
“Oh?” Elsa sits in the high-backed chair.
“I’ve got a proposition,” I say.
“And what are you proposing?”
“That Trev and I take the van to Salt Lake City.”
Her face darkens. She stands up.
“Hear me out,” I say. “Please.”
“C’mon, Mom, let him talk.”
Elsa warily resumes her seat, just as Jackie crests the driveway in a plum-colored Astro van.
“You’re in Bend the first week of September,” I say. “So either you’ll be arranging live-in care for Trev from, oh let’s say, Jackie.”
“Scalp-eater,” says Trev.
“Or,” I proceed, “you’re taking Trev with you to the show. But how are you going to tow the trailer with the van? Because the truck isn’t accessible. Unless Trev is going to travel in the horse trailer. And who’s going to help Trev while you’re working the show? This solves everything—why not let us take the van to Salt Lake?”
“I’ve already made arrangements,” she says flatly. “Yes, with Jackie. Look, Ben, there are a lot of things that you haven’t taken into consideration. Traveling with Trevor is a lot more complicated than you think.”
“He knows,” says Trev.
“I’ve Googled virtually every medical facility from here to Salt Lake City,” I say. “Pharmacies. Emergency care. Hotels with access. Red Lobsters. I’ve got it all printed out—directions, maps, rates. I’ve taken everything I can think of into consideration. And if you have more considerations, just tell me what they are, and I’ll prepare for those, too.”
Elsa bites her lower lip. For the first time, she seems to be listening. “And who pays for this trip?” she says.
“We pay our own ways.”
“You don’t have a job,” she says.
“Exactly. But I’ve got a credit card.”
She’s still biting her lip. “Why are you doing this?” she says.
“It’s personal,” I say.
She looks me hard in the face, then turns to Trev, who bobbles his head back and rolls his shoulders slightly.
“If anybody should be scared, it’s me,” he says.
I can actually see the tension slacken in Elsa’s shoulders as she gives into us. “Does Bob know?”
“Not yet,” I say.
“Well, check with Bob first. And I’m not making any promises, here. I’m going to have to really think hard about this. But if I do decide it’s a go, understand there will be guidelines. You’ll do it my way.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll make all your reservations in advance. And I’ll expect phone calls.”
“Of course.”
“One week,” she says.
“One week.”
Trev smiles uneasily.
As I’m leaving, Elsa stops me in the foyer. “Ben,” she says, locking my eyes in place. “If anything happens to my child, I—”
But she stops herself when she remembers who she’s talking to.
liftoff
Seven thirty-five a.m. on departure day, and it’s shaping up to be a stunner. Already the autumnal chill is burning off, as the sun clears the tree line beyond the pasture with nothing but blue sky in its path. Ideal travel conditions. Under the watchful gaze of Trev from the window, with Elsa beside him gnawing a cuticle, I load the freshly serviced handi-van in preparation for our departure, fastidiously checking each item off the master list—flares, cook stove, cooler, flashlights, bab
y wipes, straws, moisturizer, Enalapril, Digitek, Protandim, respirator, memory foam, deodorant, Advil, jock-itch cream, Q-tips, acne pads, electric razor, wool socks, aqua socks, windbreaker, ski jacket, swim trunks, Sorrels, flip-flops, bottled water, insurance cards, medical files.
Oh yes, we are prepared—Shackleton and Scott should’ve been as prepared. And yet I know we’re not going anywhere. Elsa will change her mind for the tenth time. She’s been waffling all morning. Trev will lose his nerve. Something will stop us. The gods will intervene—some unforeseen, unaccounted for detail will act as our foil come launch time, I’m sure of it. It’s simply impossible to imagine Trev and me side by side on the edge of the salt flats, or even strolling the dusty halls of the Idaho Potato Museum.
But by 8:07 a.m. Trev is strapped in beside me, looking a little pale, while Elsa is stationed outside the open passenger’s window of the idling van. We linger there, inviting delay, postponing the inconceivable.
“Are you sure about this?” she says.
“Not exactly,” says Trev.
“It’s not too late to make arrangements. I could call Jackie, or we could always just—”
“See you later, Mom.”
Elsa forces a smile as we pull clear of the carport. In the rearview mirror, I see her waving as we crest the driveway. I wonder if amidst all her doubt and concern, there isn’t the tiniest bit of relief in watching Trev go.
Trev sits rigid and upright in his wheelchair, staring straight ahead at the double yellow line, as we wind down Little Valley Road toward the highway.
“Did you bring the files?” he says.
“Got ’em.”
“And the insurance cards?”
“Yep.”
“Both of them?”
“Yep. In with the files.”
“They won’t fall out?”
“They’re in an envelope, paper-clipped to the files.”
“What about the Tums?”
“In the side pocket of your black bag.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the very back, next to my backpack, under the sleeping bags and the foam and a bunch of other stuff.”
Trev retreats into silence until we reach the stop sign at Bond, where I can see that his uneasiness persists.