It Looks Like This (24 page)

He says, The driver was thrown from the car during the accident, most likely while the car was flipping. He was not wearing his seat belt. Officers found him just on the shoulder of the highway, ninety feet west of where his car came to rest.

I blink once. My elbow sticks to the leather seat and I pry it off, then rest it back in place.

He says, It appeared that his head struck the road with some force. There isn’t an autopsy report yet, but he probably died instantly.

I notice I’ve been holding my breath. I let it out slowly, through my nose. I look carefully at the curvy shape of the side-view mirror and think about how there are no straight lines. In the reflection I can only see bare shadows, trees gliding by, too blurred to make out.

I say, Died.

He says, Oh yes. It woulda been real difficult to survive an accident like that, especially with no seat belt.

I dig my fingers into my thighs. I count each point of pressure from my nails, going right to left and then back. There’s a lump under my chin. My eyes feel dry and I keep blinking.

He says, It’s lucky there wasn’t anyone else on the road at the time. It’s awful, but coulda been much worse with the drinking.

I’m barely aware that his voice is back to normal. I dig my nails farther into my thighs. A small crumb of granola bar resting on the inside seam of my jeans falls in between my legs.

I say, And you don’t remember his name?

Trooper Manske shakes his head slowly. He says, Nah. I’d probably recognize it if I heard it again, but otherwise I’d have to look it up.

He waves his free hand at the laptop.

He says, Just don’t wanna do that while driving.

I look at the back of the laptop, at the rounded corners and flat gray casing. There’s a Dell logo imprinted in the middle. I look at the upturned
E
of the logo, and tilt my head a bit until it becomes a blocky
W.

My heart’s beating fast. I think about what would happen if I said a name out loud and jogged Trooper Manske’s memory.

I open my mouth slowly. The dryness makes my lips stick together just a bit. I lick them.

I turn back to the front and stare at a spot on the windshield where some dried crud has collected outside the reach of the wipers. Through it the road looks a little bit darker.

I want this moment of not knowing to last a little longer, but my heart’s beating too fast.

So I ask.

I’m three. It’s summer in Milwaukee and the day has been hot and dry and long, all ending now. The sunlight comes in at a slant, shining from Big City to my side and crashing into the lake on my other side. It looks like fire.

I know it’s Lake Michigan, that’s what Daddy says, but we’re not in Michigan so I don’t get why it’s not Lake Wisconsin.

I think about this and then look up at Mommy and Daddy, both of them holding my hands, and I say, Do it, pull me up! You both now!

Daddy grins down at me and counts, and I count along because I learned how, it’s one, two, THREE, and they both pull and my feet leave the ground, I’m Superman and I’m flying now and laughing, and they’re laughing too.

I’m seven, sitting on the swing at recess.

I’m just sitting, not swinging, not ’cause I’m scared — I’m not scared, I just like to sit sometimes.

Travis is running around the blacktop playing tag. I’m watching him, his light blond hair and green eyes. We’re okay-friends. He invited me to play, but I wanted to sit and watch them and not swing.

But I only watch Travis.

I’m ten and it’s summer in Sheboygan Falls.

The pool opened yesterday and it’s crowded today, all the kids from town are here, and there’s a game of Marco Polo going on but me and my friend Nick, we’re not playing.

We’re standing in the main part, not the deep end. The water’s four feet and it comes to my chin.

Nick splashes me and I splash him back and he laughs and disappears underwater while I wipe my eyes.

I look around for him and then I know what’s coming right before it happens. He grabs me from the back in a wrestle hold.

I laugh-scream and fight against him but it’s no use, he’s stronger than me and I hold my breath right before he pulls me under.

For a second he’s holding me there underwater and I can feel his heartbeat on my back, and for just that second I stop fighting against him.

Then he lets go and we both go back to the surface and I splash him right as he comes up.

I’m twelve. The church vents blow cool air over us, a break from the summer outside.

Another major heat wave washing over the Midwest, over one hundred degrees. News stories every few days about an old couple dying in their homes, Mom shaking her head and clicking her tongue at each one.

The preacher talks about hellfire, and I can feel it trying to get in from just beyond the great double doors, the windows, the heavy stone walls.

He talks about hell and how to get there, this place where you have no family or friends, no love, no happiness, nothing but the rest of eternity before you, on and on forever, and for the first time I wonder where I’m gonna go when I die, if I’ll be with Toby and Mom and Dad or on my own.

For the first time the preacher’s words aren’t just words but something that makes me uneasy.

The heat rises from the asphalt as we walk back to the car, making everything shimmer, the fire from below coming to get me, trying to break out of the earth and reach me, grab me, pull me down, claim me.

I’m thirteen and in Green Bay again, just me and Dad. First game of the season. He’s taken me once a year for the past few years.

We’re right in the middle of the field in one of the first few rows. They’re about the best seats in the whole place. Dad’s told me a hundred times.

I look around and around at the huge stadium, at the thousands of people all dressed in green and gold, not really paying attention to the game.

Then I look back down at the sidelines, at one of the football players who’s running off the field.

He takes off his helmet and wipes sweat off his head, but his hair is still wet and stuck together. It’s hot to be running around.

He sits on a bench. His jersey clings to his shoulder pads and back, bare arms shining with sweat, biceps bulging as he wipes his face again with a towel.

Dad shouts and stands up suddenly with the rest of the fans, startling me. Something happened in the game and I try to follow along. But after a minute or two, I look back at the football player.

I’m fourteen and me and Toby are sitting on the couch, listening, Dad with his serious face on, Mom wringing her hands nervously.

We’re going away from Wisconsin to live on the East Coast — it’s Virginia and there’s a beach near our new house and won’t that be nice?

I think about my friend Nick. Nick who I probably won’t see again.

There are other friends I have, better and closer friends, friends I hang out with all the time, not just once every few weeks or sometimes months like Nick.

But it’s Nick who I’m thinking about, not them.

I’m almost fifteen and it’s not summer anymore.

It’s a late fall night in Somerdale, Virginia, unusually warm, and the wet wind is blowing in from the Atlantic, forming small dunes on Mill Point Beach.

I’m sitting in front of one of these dunes and I can’t see anything. I can feel the wind and hear the water and that’s it.

Then the first crack of light: blue.

It keeps coming as the sun rises, colors coming in one after another, running into each other, carving out the land around us from black to light, and now I turn and I can see his face finally, light brown skin reflecting the orange and red and blue and pink and pink and pink.

Sean looks back at me and now, in that whirlwind of colors, the green of his eyes is the strongest, brightest, clearest.

He smiles and his hand closes over my fingers.

Trooper Manske taps my shoulder and says, Hey.

I blink and look over at him.

He says, You’re home, son.

I turn my head to the right. The car’s stopped. There are lights on in Ronald’s house. I can’t remember the last few minutes.

The front door opens while we’re still walking up the porch. There’s a bit of a cold breeze. My hair waves in it and tickles my forehead.

Ronald’s mom steps outside. She’s wearing white sweats and a light blue hoodie that’s too big for her. She hugs herself tight as we walk up to the door. Ronald is behind her.

Trooper Manske spins his hat in his hand. Mrs. Pilsner’s arm snakes around my shoulders. She squeezes tight and nods while he talks. I don’t really listen but this is what I hear:

side of the shoulder

hitchhiked

so relieved

kid’s lucky

I know it

dangerous

keep an eye

won’t file a report

thank you

okay, thank you

I stare at the police car behind the trooper, at the dark street behind the car, and I don’t say anything.

He taps my shoulder again.

I look up but it’s not Trooper Manske.

I say, Ronald.

Ronald is looking at me, but I’ve never seen his expression like this. His eyebrows are scrunched together. There are two small vertical lines between them, like a sideways equals sign.

I say, Where’s Trooper Manske?

Ronald says, He left a few minutes ago, dude.

He says it quiet, not like his normal voice.

I notice that I’m sitting at Ronald’s kitchen table. I look down at the surface. It’s a light orangey wood color. There are no place mats. Right near my hand is an old ring mark, fat on one end, almost a full circle. Next to that is a glass of water. A drop of condensation makes its way down the side, slowing and then speeding up. I watch it.

For just a second, I get an image in my head: me at the computer, my fingers hovering above the keyboard, thinking how to word what I want to say. I push the thought out of my head as fast and hard as I can. The last thing I see before it goes is the N key partly covered by my thumb.

I look back up. Ronald’s mom is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Just past her I can see the front door, closed.

I say, Did you get in trouble? For lying?

She looks at me a bit before she shakes her head once.

I reach out for the water and take a long sip. It’s just barely too cold.

I say, Sorry to make you get up. Do you work tomorrow?

She hugs herself tight again and nods.

I say, The police car was neat.

She says, Mike.

I say, The inside, I mean. It had a radio where we could hear the dispatcher. And a whole laptop. And there was a can of pepper spray.

She says, Mike.

I say, Are you going to call my parents?

She pulls at the sleeve of her hoodie.

She says, Not tonight.

I nod and say, Cool. Thanks. I heard about Sean.

No one says anything. Then the lights flicker for just a second as the heater turns on. I listen to the hum of the fan as it picks up speed and trace the water ring on the table with my finger.

Mrs. Pilsner walks over and sits down at the table near me. She looks at me for a while. I’m watching the tabletop.

She says, Mike.

I say, What.

She says, Mike, do your parents know where you are?

She knows the answer already so I don’t lie. My eyes are on a fixed point, a turn of the grain in the wood, when I shake my head slowly.

She says, When did you leave the . . . the place?

I didn’t know how much she or Ronald knew about where I’ve been, but I can tell by the way she asks this that they know something. I’m not that surprised. I mean I haven’t been at school for a couple weeks.

I say, Ten thirty.

Barely a whisper.

She nods, waiting a second, hesitating.

She says, Hon, I’ll have to tell them you’re here. The place will call them when they see that you’re missing, and your parents will be out of their minds worrying.

It’s like she’s pleading with me, asking me to understand. I feel a rush of affection for her and glance up just for a second.

I nod.

She says, But we’ll do that tomorrow morning. You sleep here tonight, okay?

I nod.

She looks at the clock and says, It’ll only be a few hours, I know. But better than nothing.

She turns back to me. She looks like she’s about to say something, trying to decide how to start.

Finally she just asks, Are you hungry?

I nod.

She says, Okay, babe, we made some spaghetti tonight so I’ll heat some up.

I nod.

She doesn’t get up.

Ronald is still standing to my side. She looks at him a second and then says, Mike.

I say, Yeah.

She says, Sean . . .

I stare at the wood.

She takes a breath and then says, I’m so, so sorry about Sean.

I don’t say anything.

She says, And I’m so sorry you had to find out about it the way you did.

I run my finger over the wood again.

She says, There is nothing —
nothing
— about this whole thing that is fair, or right, or even remotely okay, and what you’ve been through and what happened to that poor kid are the worst parts.