Cruise Control (7 page)

Suddenly Shawn goes “AHHHHHHHHH!” louder than before.

Dad jumps and says, “Damn, Shawn.”

I say to Dad, pretty low and calm, “He can't help it.”

Dad says, not even looking at me, “Yeah, I know. I just can't stand to hear him in pain.”

Dad's squeezing the steering wheel really hard; his knuckles are white. The traffic is heavy. Cars are jammed bumper to bumper and it's hot out. Despite the air-conditioning all of us are sweaty and tired.

I ask Dad, “How do you know Shawn's in pain?”

“For God's sake, Paul, listen to him. Does it sound to you like he's enjoying himself?”

Shawn yells “AHHHHHHHHH” again.

I say to Dad, “He's like this all the time. You're just not around to hear it.”

“No, he's not like this
all
the time!” Dad snaps at me.

I glance at Dad for half a second and see that he's giving me this real sincere, serious stare, so I look away from him. I just stare out the windshield at all the exhaust fumes and the hot sun reflecting off the windows and chrome of the cars ahead of us.

Cindy says, “You're right, Dad, Shawn doesn't do this all the time, he's just—”

Shawn interrupts, almost screaming now. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

I almost laugh, but I suddenly notice that Dad is looking in the rearview mirror at Cindy; he doesn't see that the traffic has stopped.

I yell, “LOOK OUT!!!”

Dad sees what's happening and slams on his brakes. He screeches to within a few inches of a blue Ford truck in front of us. We all bounce forward, jerking violently, then fly back into our seats.

Dad quickly looks back at Cindy and Shawn. “Are you guys all right?”

Cindy says, “Yeah, I'm okay.”

Dad looks over at me but I don't say anything; I don't even look at him.

Cindy says, “Shawn's okay too.”

Suddenly a huge mouthful of drool slips out of Shawn's lips, down over his chin onto his shirt. Dad sort of snorts and says, “Yeah, he looks just great … terrific. Cindy, can you please quiet him down?”

Cindy says, “Dad, you know I can't.”

Dad says, “Yeah, I know, I'm sorry.”

As if on cue Shawn belts out, “AHHHHHH,” then “AHHHHHH, AHHHHHH, AHHHHHH.”

Dad says, “He's driving me crazy!”

I can't help myself, I can't stop the words from coming out of my mouth; I say, “He's just your kid, Dad, the fruit of your loins, your beloved son, your—”

Dad interrupts, not even looking at me, “Please, Paul, don't, I can't stand it now—” “AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH.”

Suddenly Shawn begins to make a familiar gagging sound, gasping as he slides into a seizure. Saliva pours out of his mouth, and his body twists and turns in a tortured rush of spasms.

I say to Dad, “YOU can't stand it, huh? What about Shawn?”

The rest of the ride back to our house, where Dad can drop us off and then run away again, is quiet. Shawn has passed out and Cindy's eyes are brimming with tears. As the traffic thins, Dad seems to relax a little bit. I don't.

I've never wanted more to hit him than I do right now.

D
ad whips the van into the driveway and comes to a bumpy stop. He jumps out and slams the door. I do the same thing, making sure to slam my door at least as hard and loud as he did. I start to walk toward the house.

I assume that Dad's getting Shawn's chair or maybe getting Shawn himself out of the van, but suddenly I feel a strong grip on my shoulder, too strong for Cindy's hand. I jerk my body hard and the hand loses its grip.

Dad yells, “Hey!”

But suddenly something totally bizarre happens inside me, something weird and completely foreign. Normally, if you grabbed me the way Dad just did, in the mood that I'm in right now, you'd be crawling around picking up your teeth. But that's just it: I don't hit him. It's utter weirdness; I can't even describe it. I'm not afraid of him—at least I don't think it's fear. I don't know what it is, but a rush of words and feelings pounds through my brain and down into my throat.

I yell, “I hate you! I really, really hate you!” I pause a second, then add, “You only think about yourself!”

I've never said this to him before, not so straight up like this.

Dad, looking furious, starts to answer. “What!? Pauly—”

I interrupt. “You want this big, perfect, totally bullshit family!”

“Watch your mouth!” Dad says.

I yell, “You watch it for me … that'd be as close as you've ever been to being a parent!”

Dad, his face full of anger, steps toward me, getting right into my face.

Without thinking about it, without even knowing I'm going to do it, I take a small step back. I've never backed down from anybody in my whole life! I don't get it. I'm not scared of him … it's just … I don't know what's happening.

What the hell am I doing? I hate him! This is my chance to finally nail him. But something inside holds me back, freezes me.

Cindy, standing back at the van, starts to cry—she looks terrified. She probably thinks I'm going to kill her daddy, but I can't move a muscle—it's like I'm paralyzed.

Dad's so mad he can't even talk. He starts to stammer. “I … you …”

I interrupt, yelling, “I'm getting as far away from you as I possibly can.”

Dad asks, “Pauly, what're you talking about?”

I stare into his eyes the whole time; our faces are only inches apart. I scream, “I'm talking about an athletic scholarship, a full ride, somewhere where I'll never see you again! As soon as I can, I'm getting the hell out of here and away from you!” This is all bull, of course. I can't leave Mom and Cindy and Shawn, I know I can't, but I say it anyway just to hurt Dad.

Dad looks like somebody just slapped his face. He steps back from me and drops his eyes to the ground. His lips quiver a little and he takes a deep breath. Finally, his voice calm and soft, he says, “That's fine, Pauly, that's what you
should
do, but what do you want from me, huh, what do you want me to do?”

I don't hesitate. “Get out of my life!” I yell. I think about how trapped I am, how hopeless I feel. “And don't ever, EVER show your face at any of my games again, okay? Can you get over yourself enough to do that? To just get the hell out of my life!”

Dad steps back from me, almost stumbling. He mumbles, “You got it.”

I yell, “GOOD!”

But the weirdness keeps rushing through me; I'm not afraid, I'm not even angry. I can't tell what it is that I'm feeling until a few seconds pass. Now it hits me—I'm incredibly
sad
. My chest aches and my head throbs and my stomach turns over. My skin is tingling, and I feel like I felt when I was a little kid and something terrible happened and I couldn't do anything about it. I feel like I felt when I first understood, first really
got it
, that my brother was never going to be okay, that my brother was always going to be … totally messed up.

I glance back at the van and see that Shawn is still sound asleep. Shawn. My brother … my … suddenly a rush of tears is ready to explode out of me.

Not wanting Dad to see me cry, I turn away from him and run into the house. Mom is standing on the porch, staring at us, her mouth open and a look of shock covering her face. I rush past her, turning away so that she won't see my tears either. I race up the stairs to my room.

I slam my bedroom door behind me and sit on my bed. At least Dad knows how I feel now; at least I've finally told him what I think of him. I spot my basketball lying on the floor, pick it up, and begin spinning it in my hands. I take deep breaths, trying to calm down, but I still have that little-kid feeling of being tense and helpless and sad.

I'm glad we've got a game to play tomorrow night. I'm going to play harder than I've ever played. Somehow this game is going to be for Shawn, and somehow I'm going to make him proud of me, whether he knows he is or not. Hell, that doesn't even make any sense! How can someone feel proud when they don't have a brain?

I hear words inside my head saying, Shawn, all of this is happening because of you; I'm trying to live my life, but how can I do that when you don't have one?

I feel insane. I think maybe I am!

Mom comes to my room after Dad leaves. Her face is red. I can't tell if she's mad or scared.

She asks, “What was that about?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, you better figure it out, Paul. Your father is—”

I interrupt her. “My father is a total jerk. Period. End of story.”

Mom says, a sharper tone to her voice, “Your father is doing his best.”

I laugh. “Come on. That's ridiculous, especially coming from you. Dad's a total asshole. He left us, abandoned Shawn. He thinks that by sending us money, he's doing something.”

Mom says, her voice calm, “It's not that simple, honey. But never mind that. The fact is, you've got to get a handle on your temper before something terrible happens. I thought you and your dad were actually going to hit each other.”

I don't tell Mom how much I
wanted
to hit him, how much I wanted to
kill
him but how I couldn't do it. How can I explain it to her when I don't even understand it myself?

I say, “I know what you're saying about my temper, I know what you mean. You don't need to worry about me—I'll figure it out.”

Mom says softly, “You better figure it out soon, Paul. Something's hurting you and making you hurt others. I'm here for you if you need to talk; I'm
your
mother too, you know, not just Shawn's. Remember that, okay?”

Mom leaves my room, closing the door quietly behind her.

I feel sick inside, crazy and hopeless—I need to escape. Maybe not like Dad, leaving everyone behind forever; I know that's not possible.

But I definitely need to find some way to run away from these crazy thoughts and feelings or I
am
going to go crazy—crazy or to jail.

I
tz Friday nite and I'm totally shh-faceshd … I mean “faced” totally shh-faced … been pounding Southern Comfort and Coke-a-Colsha … I mean …

“
Cola … coooo … coooo … coooo … colaaaaa …
”

Tim-bo saysh to me, “What're you shingin?”

Shh, man, he's even drunker than I amz. I start to laugh “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha …” Itsh so weird, like I can hear my laughfshs echoing in my brain.... My lipz feel all tingling, and shh … this makesh me laugh even more … Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

I'm sooooooo way-shted … I mean “wasted.”

I probably shouldn't be driving right now, but I'm too drunk to walk … ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha …

Tim saysh, “We totally kick'd ash tonite.”

He musht mean our bashketball game. We won sheventy-ate … I mean seventy-eight … 78 … to 42 … forty-two!! I shcored thirty-two pointsh …

“Yesh we did Tim-o-phy, my fine young cannibull … ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”

All of a shudden, Tim shtarts to cry.

“Whasht wrong, Tim-bo?” I ashk my old pal and my teammate.

Tim saysh, “I'm never going to leave this plashe.”

“Whatdaya mean, amigoooo?” I ashk Tim back. He'sh cryin' bad, big tears and shnot outa his nosh....

“I can't ever leave my momz,” Tim saysh.

Even thru my buzzzzz I hear dat-shh … I feel the tears start to come to my eyesh too … I can't leave eve-er, eth-er … I mean ever, either.

We're heading down Fifteenth again, the shtreet were I kicked that Camaro guy's ash.... We're driving right by the shpot … jus' drivin' and drivin' …

Even though we're drivin' pretty fasht … I know this road like the back of my handsh … I reach down and pump the volume up hard on the shtereo, hit it harrrrdddd!!!!!!! … Really LOUD … Dr. Dre'sh … heavy bass … the whole Honda vibratin' like hellll … We're goin' down a shtraight shtretch … I lift my handsh off the shteering wheel and close my eyesh and we jus' fly along … no tears now, nothing but the tune, the night, the buzzzzz … We're flyin' along, eyesh closed … fashter … I'm that Leonardo
Titantic
guy … that “king of the world” guy.... I'm … invinshible … I mean invincible …

Tim's never leavin' here … and I'm never leavin' eith-er … but right now I'm flyin' … I'm invincible AND invishible … I mean invisible …

We're never leavin' our livesh, we're never doin' nothin' but flyin' down the road till we die …

I
f the cops had busted us for drinking and driving last night, we'd be totally screwed, and we'd deserve to be. Even if Coach had caught us, we'd be suspended for at least a game and probably longer. So, of course, Coach didn't catch us. He doesn't want to catch us and we don't want to get caught. It's a great arrangement for everybody, even if it is totally stupid.