The Other Way Around (16 page)

Emily shakes her head. “Boo hoo, sounds like a sad story. Poor neglected rich boy.”

“Hey,” Jesse interrupts again. “I think that's enough.” It's the only time I've ever heard Jesse raise his voice, and the effect
is immediate. Emily stomps off, and Lyle goes after her. I take over the spaghetti, but I'm so distracted that I add too much pasta and forget to stir. The result is an enormous starchy lump that I try to disguise with globs of tomato sauce and garlic powder.

“Not much of a chef, are you, Andrew?” G says as she attacks her pasta with a fork and knife.

That night it's my turn to sleep up in the pop-up. I'm a little nervous to be sharing the space with Tim because, one, it's the closest I've ever slept to another guy, and, two, his flatulence can be pretty overwhelming. But he assures me that spaghetti doesn't really have that effect on his digestive system, and within about five minutes he's breathing slow and deep. I can't fall asleep right away. I watch out the small screen window, trying to tell myself that I'm not waiting for Emily to come back and that I'm not hoping that she's alone.

Eventually I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake up, it's morning and they're both asleep, albeit on opposite sides of the van floor. I try to go back to sleep, but after a few tosses and turns I realize it's futile. The creaking van door does exactly what I hoped it would; awakens Emily and no one else. She smiles and creeps out after me. We walk without speaking down to the river. Emily sits down on the browning grass, and I plop down next to her and start pulling apart clovers. I'm staring at her out of the corner of my eye. I love the way the baby hairs just above her ears form tiny golden ringlets.

“Do
you
think I overreacted about Lyle?” she asks.

It feels like a test question. Is the right answer the obvious one, the one that will influence the best outcome for me, or is it the one that makes me look like a good guy? “I don't know,” I say truthfully.

“I'm kind of sensitive about people lying to me,” she says and looks off mysteriously. I think about what G said about Emily and her love of drama. I don't take the bait.

“If it makes a difference, I don't think he intended the lie for you specifically.”

Her face falls a little. “Yeah,” she admits, “you're probably right.

“G thinks—” I start to say.

“G hates me,” Emily interrupts.

I'm quiet, which I don't want her to take for agreement. “I don't think she
hates
you.”

Emily shrugs. “She doesn't like me.” I don't say anything. Emily starts to pull at the grass in front of her. “What about you, Drew? Have you ever had your heart broken?”

“Nope. Not even close.”

“Lucky.”

“Um, sort of. In a monastic kind of way.”

Emily laughs. She throws back her head, and I have a sudden urge to kiss her throat. “You're good, Drew. You're a good person. I need more good people in my life.” A fearful look crosses Emily's face for just an instant and then it's gone. She stands up and pitches a handful of grass into the muddy river. I wait a minute before reluctantly getting up. We walk back to the van together, and she catches my hand and swings it like we're little kids at the zoo. Her palm is soft and warm. My heart is warm too. Emily thinks I'm a good person. Can't really remember the last time someone said that to me. Mima probably. I swallow hard at the lump in my throat.

After breakfast, Jesse outlines a plan to head for Hot Springs, Arkansas, where there's a bluegrass festival going on all week. He's hoping to make enough money to get across Texas, which he describes as an inhospitable place for people like the Freegans. He notes Austin as a possible exception. Still, it's a big state, and everyone agrees it would be good to have some funds socked away before making the crossing. Shirley
has proved herself a more than reliable ride, if a little on the thirsty side when it comes to miles per gallon.

Mostly it's G and Tim and Jesse who do the talking. Lyle and Emily are silently sullen, and I'm still along for the ride. There are no strong objections when Jesse mentions the possibility of visiting his friend's farm after the bluegrass festival is over. So we've got a plan, at least for the next week or so. I'm kind of hoping for some opportunity to take a shower.

Before we leave Memphis I find a pay phone in the park down by the river and call Mom again. It's awful. She cries and tells me she hasn't been sleeping, and I try and tell her not to worry. She brings up school again and tells me that all my teachers have been asking about me. Which, with the exception of Ms. Tuttle, I kind of doubt. I've left enough schools to recognize that semi-relieved look teachers give you when you tell them you're leaving, and they realize they'll have one less paper to grade and one less kid to worry about. It's really hard to get off the phone. She keeps stalling in a way that makes me feel incredibly guilty. I wish I could put into words why I can't come home yet, so she would know that it's mostly not about her. But I would have to know those words first.

Back at the van, the air is still heavy with Lyle and Emily's drama. I pick up my book again. I'm rereading the letter that McCandless writes to the old man he befriends, the one where he tells him how important it is to lead a life of adventure and new horizons. And even though it strikes me as kind of an unfair thing to tell someone in their eighties, I feel for the first time like McCandless and I might actually have something in common. Jesse is driving and Tim is riding up front, trying to get Shirley's ancient stereo system
to hook up to his video camera so he can play us the street musicians he recorded in Memphis. G and I are playing Spit in the back. Lyle is pretending to read, and Emily is throwing stony glances in his direction. Tim gives up on the stereo and pulls out a dusty shoebox from underneath the passenger seat. “Okay, people, enough drama. It's random CD time!” he announces. G passes up the boom box they use for performances, and Tim makes a big show of closing his eyes and pulling a disc at random from the box.

“They were Jesse's dad's,” G says. “None of the CDs are labeled, and there's a lot of classic rock and bad eighties hair bands, so consider yourself warned.” But the CD that Tim picks out turns out to be a totally innocuous classic: Paul Simon's
Graceland
. Soon we're all bobbing our heads to “Boy in the Bubble.” By the time “Graceland” comes on, we're all humming quietly. “You Can Call Me Al” has us all singing the chorus at the top of our lungs. If anyone thinks that the lyrics to “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” are particularly appropriate to this morning's squabble, no one says anything. And for a while all the tension between Lyle and Emily seems to slip out the window on the moving musical breeze.

The CD is over, and it's agreed that we should wait for a while before playing another one since they need the stereo for the show, and batteries aren't cheap. Emily scooches over to where G and I are playing cards and pretends to be interested in the game for a while. Eventually she lies down with her head on my thigh and starts reading the arts section of a Memphis newspaper. G looks up from her cards to give me a raised eyebrow, which I ignore. “How about a little space here, Emily,” G says as she goes to deal the next hand.

“I don't hear anyone else complaining,” Emily says as she moves over half a millimeter to the right. Eventually she sits up and starts stretching her head and neck from one side to the other. “I slept like crap last night,” she remarks to no one in particular. “I must have slept funny because my neck kills,” she adds. At this point I'm sufficiently distracted, and G manages to throw down her last cards and win the game before I can stop her.

“Sucker,” she says to punctuate her win.

“Andrew, will you rub my neck?” Emily asks.

“Sure,” I say, ignoring the little cough that G gives and the tightening of the muscles along Lyle's jaw.

I've never rubbed anyone's neck before, much less the neck of a girl that I find incredibly attractive. I focus all my attention on moving my hands and rippling my fingers in a way that I imagine would feel good. I must be good at it, though because Emily is sighing and almost moaning as I work on the knots around her neck and spine. Lyle is reading even more intently than before, and I just keep telling myself I'm only the masseuse here and this really isn't my problem. Maybe if I were a bigger person I would try harder to ignore Emily's attentions, but I'm not.

Emily's neck beneath all that hair is surprisingly dainty. For just a minute I have a flash of Margaret's neck from back in English class. Compared to Emily, Margaret's neck seems tame, even boring. Would Alex think Emily was hot? He definitely wouldn't approve of her dreads. Did I even speak to any girls the entire time I was at St. Mary's? What was wrong with me? And what's different now? This is the scarier question.

What's Wrong With Me
. It was another list I had in the divorce diary, except it's blank. I remember being asked to write it down, as a pathetically obvious attempt to dig out my insecurities, but not being able to think of something. I remember the counselor lady, an overweight woman with tightly curled brown hair, pointing out how great it was that I didn't have anything to write down here. As if it was proof of anything besides the fact that I couldn't think hard enough to write something down.

When we arrive in Hot Springs, Emily grabs her backpack and announces to all of us that she's going off to have some alone time. Lyle mumbles something about wanting to find a hardware store and wanders off solo as well.

“I thought I saw signs for a YMCA on the way in. Anyone want to try and grab a shower?” Jesse says.

“YES!” I shout, and G and Tim both look at me and crack up. The four of us drive in circles for a little bit, asking directions, and eventually make our way to the Hot Springs YMCA. This is not the YMCA I remember from my childhood swim lessons. There's no peeling paint or hair stuck in the rubber mats on the locker room floor. This is a brand-new facility, and after the desk clerk looks us over a few times and checks with her supervisor, we are allowed into the locker rooms to shower and clean up.

If it weren't for Tim's singing I could stay under the hot water for hours. As it is, my fingers are pruned when I finally emerge from the stall. I use the soap provided in the dispenser to wash everything, even though I'm not sure it's meant for hair. I wish I had clean clothes to put on over my clean body, but this will have to do for now. Jesse mentions something
about going in on a load of laundry together if we can find one of those places with an industrial-sized washer and dryer.

We head back to the center of town in case Lyle and Emily have returned, but there's no sign of either of them, so we leave the van and decide to scout out the local dumpsters for some variety in our dinner. Downtown Hot Springs is actually kind of cool. It feels a little like an old mining town from one of those Western movies, except with a bit of Southern flavor. I read on one of the tourist signs that Native Americans used the naturally heated water as a gathering place for years before Europeans came along. The old bathhouse buildings line one side of the street, and on the other are restaurants and little galleries. I think of Mom and how she would like it here. I consider for a moment buying a postcard and sending it to her before I remember that I have no money.

Dad would like it here too, with all the old buildings. Our last family vacation was in third grade, when we went to Washington, DC. They had a couple fights over whether or not I was old enough to see the Holocaust Museum and which was more important for me to see, the Lincoln Memorial or the Vietnam Wall. But mostly it was good. I remember eating ice cream and walking in that huge park they call the mall. I remember holding both their hands.

We duck into an alley behind a really good-smelling barbeque restaurant in search of dumpster treasure. We're just pulling up the lid when the restaurant's proprietor, a heavyset black man with a belly bulging out and around his apron strings, sticks his head into the alley.

“Hey,” he calls, “What you doing in my dumpster?” his English is accented in a way I don't recognize.

“Sorry, man,” Jesse says and lets the lid fall back down.

The man studies us for a minute, taking in our wet hair and our dirty clothes. “You want some dinner?” he asks. “I got a dishwasher didn't show up tonight. You wash some pots, and I'll feed all of you.” The smells from the kitchen grow stronger and more irresistible the longer he stands in the doorway. We follow him into the back of the restaurant. “I'm Gene,” he says. “This is my place.” We're standing in front of a huge metal machine with plastic racks and a metal tray on either side. “You know how to use a Hobart?” he asks.

Everyone nods except for me. Gene looks at me for a minute. “You come scrub pots. Everyone else back here. Aprons are on the wall, hairnets are in the back. You finish all these.”—he gestures at the stacks of plates and silverware that have clearly been piling up all day—“and I feed you really good stuff. Deal?”

“Deal,” says Jesse, and he sticks out his hand to shake. Gene has the meaty hands of someone who wields a big butcher knife for a living, and his arms are crisscrossed with small pink oven burns. I follow him to another part of the kitchen, where a huge sink sits piled with pots and greasy trays. He hands me a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves and shows me where the dish soap and scrubbers are.

“You do this before?” he asks. I've narrowed his accent down to somewhere Caribbean.

“Nope.”

“You let these big rice pots soak,” he advises. “Then they clean out nicely. These other trays, they greasy but they clean up easy.”

“Okay,” I say, making a mental addition to my list of useful
knowledge for the rest of my life. Who knows, there might be a lot more washing of pots and pans at the rate I'm going.