I Will Rise (12 page)

Eddie waves his raised arm like a snake and then brings it down, palm out, extended toward me. “The woman from earlier appears in the distance. I can’t make her out, but she stares on expectantly from afar. She seems anxious and her hands fidget. The red overtakes you completely and your eyes roll up into your head and their luminous white backsides turn to black. You raise your palm for a second time. It opens again, but there are no mesmerizing spirals of color, instead its center is a cavernous pit, black and infinite and deep, ringed with a million colorless shades of decay. I want to run, but terror paralyzes me. You raise your death hand high above your head and the palm stretches to cartoonish proportions. You bring it down around me, entombing me, and in the complete darkness there is no air. There is no hope, or place to run, or chance of escape. I gasp and choke and die myself awake.”

His little eyes open and I look into them. I break and stare off and think: this kid doesn’t need access to my brain, he knows me better than I know myself. All this fucked-up shit in my head, my new purpose, my destiny, my new station in life, all the crap I can’t seem to get a grip on, I can’t seem to make sense of, he understands. He understands that I’m here to kill all. And I understand it too: the thought comes and I want to explode, I want to annihilate every last soul, but then as quickly as it comes, it goes, and I’m looking at Eddie and thinking about how clever and childlike-cute he is, or about the waitress and how kick-ass she is at her job, or a world within a world in the bathroom sink and how life is perpetual, and suddenly I’m not thinking about killing anymore. I’m thinking about fitting in. I’m thinking about life-type things. I’m thinking and I’m thinking and I have to stop. I have to refuse such contemplation and stay focused on death. On what I am. I am death. I have to grab someone and drain them. I have to get away from Eddie. I have to get the hell out of Denny’s. I have to fulfill my destiny. I am everlasting fucking death and for fuck’s sake where is Annabelle to steer me along?

Eddie points at me. “I may not be able to get in your head, but I can read your face. I know I sound crazy, but I also know I am not too far from the truth. I also know that you are planning on ditching me, it’s written all over your eyes. Knowing all I know, knowing there is a good chance that you will kill me, I still want to stick. This is my only chance. If you drop me off, somehow, some way, I will be returned to my old life. I can run and try to make my own way, but a five-year-old won’t get very far. People,—despite my dislike, despite your dislike—are kind and they won’t let a child alone. I will be returned to my family or turned over to Child Protective Services no matter what I say or do. So if you please, push those ideas from your mind. I am sticking and if you refuse me, I will make sure you are arrested for kidnapping. I don’t care what you are or what you are capable of, I will take my chances, because anything, even death, is better than going back.”

The waitress appears out of nowhere. “Everything okay here, gentlemen?”

We both nod.

“Can I bring you anything else?”

We both shake our heads.

“Have a good day then.” She puts down the check and hurries away to another table.

I look at the check. Eddie watches me and then whispers, “I also know that you can’t pay the bill. I’ll meet you in the car.”

He smiles and then gets up and bolts out the door.

Chapter Nine

Something Like Faith

Nobody notices me ditch out on the check, but I feel hundreds of eyes on my back and butterflies slam-dancing in my stomach nonetheless. I fast-walk to the car, a blanket of sweat moistens my forehead, nerves I guess, but everything evens out once I am behind the wheel. Eddie is sitting in the backseat staring at me in the rearview mirror. I give him a look—a sour, fuck-off look—as we pull out of Denny’s and head for the freeway. I still like the little goober, and a secret joy pulses in my brain over the fact that he is here keeping me company, but his petty threats back in the restaurant have pissed me off and I intend on making him feel like shit for going there.

“It’s not going to work,” he calls from the backseat. “I know you’re happy to have me along.”

He sure collects a lot for someone who supposedly can’t read my thoughts.

“Just the surface stuff.”

“Enough!” I shout half-mad. Eddie kind of smirks and stares off out the window. “Nice pajamas,” I jab.

Sweet silence then, for a little while at least. I drive aimlessly, awaiting Annabelle’s return. Gas is at just under a half tank and I don’t know how long before we run out. Stealing gas isn’t as easy as skipping out on a breakfast check. I’ve never siphoned before, but I think I know how it’s done. I hope this tank will last me until nightfall. Under the cover of night I can find a residential area, snag a thin hose from someone’s front yard and then see if I can get some gas. Maybe I should steal another car. The cops are probably looking for this one. The thought makes me nervous and I feel like I did exiting the Denny’s without paying the bill. I feel like a thousand pairs of eyes are bearing down on my back. Well, a thousand and one pairs of eyes if you count Eddie’s, which I don’t.

Where was it Annabelle said I had to go? Did she say where? I have a tough time remembering. All that’s happened is a blurry mess in my mind. Arizona keeps popping up. Did she say she lived in Arizona? I hate it when this happens. Someone gives you a piece of information, like an address or a phone number or an appointment time and everything feels right, like your brain has got it locked and there is no way you are going to forget it, but when you try and retrieve it from the overcrowded goop in your head, it’s nowhere to be found. When I was younger, I used to roll my eyes at people who made lists or kept organizers. I used to think they were lazy-brained or weak-minded, but now I know better, and though I hate to admit it, I understand. I have become one of those people. My brain isn’t as sharp as it used to be and I have to write shit down. The craziest part is it just sort of happens overnight. One day you’re on top of everything, the next it’s all gotten away from you. Getting old is a scary thing.

My mood plummets.

Goddamn I am so stupid.

Where in the fuck is Annabelle? I’m starting to rethink that maybe she doesn’t exist. Maybe my decaying brain has made her up and I can’t remember how to bring her back. I mean, if she is a figment of my fucked-up imagination, the least my fucked-up imagination could do is bring her back and maintain the integrity of this fantasy. Henceforth the crude descriptor: fucked up. I am fucked up. Everything is fucked up. Reality is a fucked-up wave of inconsistencies and futile yearnings.

I am fucked up.

Eddie breaks the sweet silence and pulls me from my collapsing thoughts.

“Where are we going, Charles?”

“I don’t know, Ed.” Might as well be honest.

“Eddie. Not Ed. Eddie, remember?”

Anger blossoms. I want him to shut his little mouth. I feel like shit and don’t particular want to talk. I snap back, “I remember, Ed, and I don’t know where we are going.”

He lets it go. “I apologize for some of the things I said back at the restaurant. I just really need to be here,” he says quietly.

“Where?” Monotone. Fucking with him for the hell of it. Am I tired? I haven’t slept, but do I even need sleep? I feel so apathetic. Eddie’s voice is like a gnat obnoxiously hovering around my ears.

“Here, with you, away from the rest of the world.”

“I’m no different than the rest of the world.”

“Yes you are, you’re just moody and agitated right now.” His little face lights up with an idea or a thought or something. “You’re lost? Tell me where we are supposed to be going and I will tell you how to get there. I’ve memorized tons of road atlases.”

He is trying to cheer me up, his voice has gone sugary and his little eyebrows go up and down in overexaggerated, cute-kid arcs as he speaks. And you know what? Smack my face and call me a sucker, but believe it or not it’s working. I have little experience with kids and given my stormy disposition didn’t think I would like them much, but go figure, as it turns out I’m a kid person and Eddie Lee Wiggins is about the most adorable five-year-old this world has ever produced. I really want to pursue my bad mood, ride it into anger and tell him
we
aren’t going anywhere, crush the goodwill in his voice and say that where
I
am going isn’t any of his business, but instead the pleasantness infects me and I lighten up.

“I think we are going to Arizona.”

“Easy. Stay on I-80 East. In about forty-five miles look for the ramp toward Fernley, Fallon, Ely and Great Basin National Park, then make a slight right onto NV-343…”

“It’s probably best if you tell me as we go.” The only thing I can remember is his first command—stay on I-80 East.

“No problem, Charles!” Eddie is jazzed. He kind of reminds me of that little dog that follows around the big dog in those goofy commercials.

By the way, did I mention I live (lived) in a small town just outside of San Francisco? I suppose it doesn’t matter and in supposing it doesn’t matter, I suppose the name of the small town doesn’t matter either. Whatever. Regardless, at this very moment (for you geography buffs), we are nearing Reno, Nevada. I don’t know how I got here. My strategy thus far has been to point the car east and drive, but with Eddie along as navigator this may work out fine. “Just be sure to remind me as the interchanges come up,” I shout back at him.

“Right, I’ll navigate!” The chance to help, to be a part of my nightmare, what must seem like a grand adventure to him, sends beams of radiant delight from his twinkling eyes.

“Navigator it is!” I egg him on in a playful voice.

And happy as a hound digging through a graveyard, he’s off:

“I have read a little about navigators. They are essentially the backbone of most military operations. They are full-fledged members of the crew and they make use of highly specialized computer systems to carry out their task and may be appointed as operational commanders of the aircraft and must be able to make quick decisions. Electronic warfare is an integral part of the navigator’s task. The career of the navigator consists of three areas; namely the assault/reconnaissance navigator, the maritime navigator, and the airborne navigator.” Eddie pauses and takes a breath. His eyes roll up into his head, his lips move as if he is reading and then the eyes drop back down. He continues:

“The main task of assault navigators is to trace hostile targets, such as hostile aeroplanes, runways, tanks and convoys so that they can be destroyed. They make use of, among others, the Cheetah-D fighter aircraft …” He comes to an abrupt halt and then says, “Charles?”

“Yeah?”

Eddie drops the navigator stories for a minute and switches gears. “We have to get another car. They’ll find us if we keep this one.”

“I know. I’m trying to work it out in my head.”

“Good, just so long as you know. As your navigator I have to advise you that I can feel my mom. She’s got the police looking for me, but don’t worry, I am good with cars. I’ve studied mechanics intensively so if you need help, I am positive I can hot-wire one.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” And he is off yet again, “Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, navigators. Maritime navigators specialize in air operations, which are carried out over the sea. The maritime force protects and…”

From navigator job descriptions to just about any other topic imaginable, Eddie’s words careen wildly. He truly is a battery of knowledge. For forty-five minutes he goes on and surprisingly for forty-five minutes he has me listening. Driving about aimlessly doesn’t seem so bad, what with a talking encyclopedia burning time.

Here is what I learn:

I learn that Eddie hates television. He thinks it’s too easy and that it is directly responsible for making America lazy. He does admit to liking one particular show, some superhero cartoon silliness, but he quickly assures me it is a guilty pleasure watched very infrequently.

I learn that it is insulting to think, even for a millisecond, that aliens had any part in developing ancient Egyptian architecture, in particular the pyramids. To do so is to disrespect black culture by inferring that native Egyptians didn’t possess the cognitive dissonance to design and construct a few “simple geometric temples.”

I learn that Eddie dislikes sweets of any kind, save for chocolate milk and pancake syrup, as evidenced by breakfast at Denny’s.

I learn that males have a pronounced occipital crest.

I learn that Eddie understands sex, its purpose, its “critical reproductive qualities,” and he understands that hormones will infect his body sometime in the next ten years, but he has yet to understand how these hormones will make him feel, or rather he understands how they will make him feel, he just has no way in which to conceive how these feelings will feel. Right now, the whole concept makes him feel “icky and nauseated.”

I learn that Eddie’s two biggest fears are the threat of chemical and biological warfare and upside-down roller coasters.

I learn that Eddie is afraid of his stepfather and he tries to act dumb, or “normal,” around him.

I learn that Eddie loves his mother, even though she has made “every wrong choice a young woman can make.”

I learn that it is one of Eddie’s goals to be a writer and have a book published before he hits the double digits.

I learn how many ball bearings are in the average mountain bike (already I have forgotten).

I learn that Eddie loves to spin. When things get to be too much, he just cuts loose. Grinning from ear to ear he tells me, “When you get down, just close your eyes, throw out your arms and spin. It really clears the head.”

I learn that the human body only needs five hours of sleep to function at optimum levels and that the standard eight-hour theory reinforces Eddie’s vision of a lazy America.

I learn that once we are past infancy, we aren’t meant to drink milk.

I learn that Sylvia Plath’s only novel
The Bell Jar
is a work of pure perfection and as he says this I think what is a five-year-old, genius or not, doing reading a book like that?

I learn that Tolstoy’s
War and Peace
is right up there with
The Bell Jar
and as he says this I don’t even know what to make of it.

Does Eddie being a genius mean he can actually grasp complex, emotional concepts like those presented in Plath’s or Tolstoy’s books? I can understand his little enhanced mind memorizing phone books and history books and the technical manuals for cars or computers, but does he actually get the significance of literature? Maybe. He is pretty sharp. But I can’t help thinking he is flossing. No that he hasn’t read those books, I’m sure he has. I’m sure he’s memorized every word, just like he has committed the yellow pages to memory, but something tells me he hasn’t taken them to heart. He can’t. Not at five years in, no matter how much you read or how kick-ass your brain is. Something inside tells me he is showing off.

Regardless, I like Eddie. He’s a good kid and a lot more interesting than any adult I have ever met. What’s more, he likes me. Finally, someone who likes me, not only likes me, but respects me. We have a lot in common. We both distrust humanity as a whole. Eddie can actually get inside people and see firsthand how fake they are and although I don’t have ESP, I can see it behind their eyes. We both just want to fit in and want to see acceptance in those human brains and behind those deceptive eyes.

As much as I like Eddie, enough chatter is enough and after a while his ramblings cause my brain to glaze over. I continue to address him in the rearview mirror, feigning interest just like every other untrustworthy human in our lives, and even though I can’t actually hear him anymore—just a rhythmic murmuring of sound pumping from the backseat—there is still a connection, a deep communing that transcends words and finds its home in the eyes. Our eyes seem to understand each other. Trust. Feeling guilty about not really listening, feeling that trusting eyes are not enough, I blink a couple times and try to come back around to paying attention, and I give him a little of the respect he deserves. But before I have the chance to focus, a red glare beckons from the corner of my right socket.

Annabelle.

“What’s up, Charlie?”

Excitement washes over me.

Finally. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, looking better than ever, is my death guide—the one, the only, Annabelle. She is wearing the requisite bondage pants and baby tee. No slogan this time, just thin white material and the strong outline of her bra showing through. Her hair has darkened to a plum color, but the sun shines off it in severe red bursts and it looks almost as if a red halo circumvents her head.

“Annabelle,” I exclaim with relief.

The Eddie-isms cease. “What, Charles?” he asks from the backseat.

“Nothing,” I mumble, but reconsider: maybe he can see her or feel her what with his superbrain. “You can’t see her?” I ask.

“Of course he can’t,” Annabelle snickers.

“See who?” comes the reply from the backseat.

“Nothing,” I shout back at Eddie. “You were saying?”

And he’s off, bringing his dirge back around to the noble navigator without skipping a beat.

“Who’s the kid?” Annabelle gestures with her thumb. I look at her and make eyes indicating I can’t talk in front of him. Her mouth stretches from ear to ear and I am mesmerized by that glorious smile.