No Right Turn (12 page)

Finally I'm at the top of Northridge Road. No cops anywhere in sight. I say to myself, I made it.

As I idle toward Don's driveway, I think, This has
got
to stop. That was just too close. I've got to knock this shit off!

I'm thinking that exact thought; I really am, even
before
I spot the two Spokane County sheriff's cars parked in front of Don's house.

There are times when you know you're just screwed, the jig's up, there's no way to escape your life. It's like when you're out driving, having a horrible day, and you see a sign that says
NO RIGHT TURN
, and you say to yourself, That's for sure, sometimes there's no right
anything
! You have no chance, nothing except reality is left, and it totally sucks.

It felt like that when Dad killed himself.

And it feels a little bit like that again right now.

I could easily spin the 'Vette around, do a quick 180-degree turn and take off again, but what's the point? I feel a tiny bit like I felt three years ago, when I heard that gunshot—hopeless and trapped.

I ease the Corvette into Don's driveway; the three cops, two men and one woman, stand on the front porch. This is the first time I've seen cops and cop cars in our neighborhood since the night Dad killed himself. From Don's porch they look at me, and one of them puts his hand on his gun, not like he's going to draw it and shoot me, more like he's just resting his hand there; still, it bugs me. I slow the 'Vette down even more; by habit, I push the garage-door opener.

The other man cop, not the one touching the gun, yells, “Stop right there!”

Startled by the loudness of his voice, I hit the brake pedal too hard, and even though I'm going really slow, the 'Vette jerks to a sudden stop. The cop who yelled yells again. “Get out of the vehicle and keep your hands where we can see them!”

As I open the door of the Corvette and get out of the car, the lady cop and one of the men step to the side and I notice, for the first time since I pulled up, that Don is standing there on the porch with them.

Don and one of the cops, the one with his hand on his gun, stand there staring at me. The lady cop and the other cop get in one of the police cars and leave together. I get out of the car and walk over to Don.

I want to say something to him, want to apologize at least, but I can't talk, I can't think of the right words; I feel ashamed and sad. I don't care what they do to me; whatever it is, I deserve it. The cop car reminds me once again of how it felt when Dad killed himself, the embarrassment and shock and humiliation—and the fear.

I'm thinking about this when Don suddenly asks me, “What'd I tell you about the rules when you were
borrowing
the Corvette?”

I stare at him, thinking that I've misunderstood. “Sorry?”

“You heard me, Jordan—I told you
never
to speed when you borrow the 'Vette, and you know it. Then, on top of it, you run from the police!”

“I—” I start to speak, but Don interrupts.

“This is Jack Davis. He's my wife's brother.”

“I …” I start again but stop myself. What the hell is happening? Why aren't I under arrest? What difference does it make what the cop's name is? How come Don's acting crazy? I think of all these things, but all I manage to spit out is “You don't have a wife.”

Don says, “My ex-wife. And that's not the point. Did you or did you not run from the police out on Waikiki Road twenty minutes ago?”

I hesitate, thinking, Shouldn't I have an attorney here? Shouldn't my mom, at least, be here? But instead I answer, “I was out there and I was speeding....” I hesitate again, and in an instant I decide to tell one last lie. “But I didn't know that was a cop behind me—”

Don interrupts again. “A policeman?”

I say, “Sorry, yeah, a policeman, I didn't know it was a policeman.”

This seems like the smartest thing to say, and if I'm reading Don right, it's what he wants me to say.

Don turns to Officer Davis. “You didn't turn on your pursuit lights?”

The cop, a huge guy with a big belly and thinning hair, smiles at Don. “I wasn't a hundred percent sure it wasn't
you
in the car.” He turns to me and says, “For future reference, if we see your license plate, you might as well hand us your home address. And
LUV'NNOS
is kind of a tough plate to miss.”

Don says, “You're lucky, Jordan.”

The cop pulls out his ticket book and looks at Don. “You sure you want me to do this?”

Don says, “Absolutely. He broke the law.”

The cop turns to me, asks for my driver's license, and says, “I'm going to write you a citation for going sixty in a thirty-five-miles-per-hour zone. Frankly, I know you were going a little bit faster than sixty; I hit one fifteen before you left me in the dust, but anything more than thirty miles over the limit is Reckless Driving; I'm gonna give you a break.”

He fills out the ticket, I sign it, and he snaps his book closed.

Don says to me, “We'll talk about this tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Go home.”

I can't believe my ears; I just stand here and stare.

“Go,” Don says, and turns and starts talking to the cop.

I start walking across Don's yard toward my house, still confused. Don's a good guy, but this doesn't even make sense. I get most of the way to the street, then stop and look back. “I'm sorry, Don. I'm really sorry, I—”

He interrupts. “We'll talk about it tomorrow, first thing.” He turns his back to me.

When I walk in the front door to my house, I tiptoe through the hallway toward my bedroom.

Mom yells out from her room, “Hi, honey.”

I freeze in my tracks. Her voice sounds sleepy and relaxed. I yell back, “Hi.”

She asks, “Were you out with Wally?”

She doesn't know anything about me taking the 'Vette. I answer, “No, with Becka.”

“Oh,” Mom says. I can hear her happiness for me in her tone. “That's great. I'm glad you two made up. Did you have a nice time?”

I say, “I'll tell you about it in the morning, okay? I'm tired.”

“Okay, sweetie,” Mom says. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

I go into my room and close the door behind me.

I go to bed, and I have one of those weird dreams that seem totally real. Not the whole dream, but the first part of it.

In the dream my dad and I are over in Seattle at the last Mariners game we ever went to together, the summer before he died. Of course, back when this happened in real life, I didn't know it would be our last time going to a game.

In the dream everything is happening exactly like it really happened that day—the sky is blue, with just a few wisps of clouds, the grass is so bright green that it seems almost blinding, and the game is really exciting. The Ms are playing the dreaded Yankees, and it's the bottom of the seventh, two outs with the Mariners trailing by one run.

As the game has gone on, it's gotten more and more exciting. My dad, who was a die-hard Mariners fan, has been getting more and more into it. Anyway, it's a 3-and-2 count on the Mariners hitter, and the tying run is on third base. The Yankee pitcher delivers a fastball that looks way outside, but the umpire yells, “Steeee-rike!” Inning over. My dad jumps up from his seat like he's just been hit by a jolt of electricity and yells really loud, “Bullshit!”

In another couple seconds the entire crowd is booing at the ump, but in that moment before the loud booing starts,
everybody
in Safeco Field can hear my dad's “Bullshit!” boom out. I look up at my dad, and he glances down at me, and then he sits down really fast. His face is red at first, but the next thing he turns kind of pale. I can tell that he's really embarrassed about swearing in front of all these people. A minute or two later, while the crowd is still booing their heads off, Dad turns to me and says, just loud enough for me to hear, “You ready to go?”

I'm more of a football fan than baseball anyway. Dad's the baseball fanatic. Lots of times we leave games early and listen to the end on the radio so that we can beat the traffic, but there's definitely something else going on this time—does Dad know that this is the last live ball game he'll ever see? Is he afraid that somebody's gonna come yell at him for cursing so loud at the ump? Whatever. The next thing I know, we're moving down the aisle, then up the stairs to leave.

In real life this is exactly what happened, just like I'm describing it.

But in my dream things are different, things gets really weird. In the dream, right after Dad yells, “Bullshit!” a big guy sitting right in front of us—and when I say big I mean mostly fat, but also tall and kind of huge looking, almost like a giant—anyway, in the dream this guy, wearing a faded, beat-up Mariners cap, turns around and looks at my dad. There's a tense moment of silence between them, and then the giant yells, “Right on!!” and raises his hand in the high-five gesture. My dad high-fives the guy, and then they both yell, “Bullshit!” together.

Softly at first, but then really loud, all across the stadium, every voice starts yelling, “Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit! …” as loud as they can, over and over. The next thing I know, I'm standing with everybody else, and I'm yelling it too. I look at my dad and he looks back at me and he's laughing, and we're both yelling, “Bullshit!” over and over again—together.

I'm yelling so hard, and feeling so happy, that I wake myself up, still laughing in my bed!

But in another few seconds I'm fully awake. It's really early, still dark outside. Don said he wanted to see me first thing, but I don't think he had the middle of the night in mind.

Now I lie here thinking about everything—tossing and turning and never sleeping for more than a few minutes, mostly remembering my bullshit dream.

It's 5:42
A.M.
I close my eyes and pull my blankets over my head, but it's hopeless; I can't sleep.

I can't stop thinking about Don. Why would he protect me when I've screwed him over so bad? It makes me sick to think about it. I've been such a jerk. I feel horrible, not because I got caught, but because now Don knows what a selfish ass I've been. That bothers me—a lot!

At 6:30 I get up. I know it's too early, but lying here trying to sleep is making me crazy. I want to get this over with.

I leave the house quietly so that I won't wake up Mom.

I ring Don's doorbell. After a few seconds he answers. He's wearing black sweatpants and a gray
SPOKANE CORVETTE CLUB
T-shirt, like the one he gave to me and I wore on my first date with Becka. I feel another rush of guilt, but I'm more embarrassed than anything else; my palms are sweaty and my heart pounds—my stomach is doing backflips.

Don's holding a cup of coffee, and his hair is kind of pushed up to one side, like he's just gotten up.

He says, “When I said first thing in the morning, I didn't mean this early.”

“I'm sorry. I can come back later.”

“No,” Don says, “it's all right. Come on in.”

In all the time we've spent together over these last weeks, I've never actually been inside Don's house before. We've always worked in his garage or driveway.

I follow him through his entryway and into a living room—dining room area. He has nice things: A big dining room lies straight ahead, and to the left a living room with a large couch and a couple stuffed chairs. There's a nice rug, the expensive Persian type, in the middle of the living room under a big glass-topped coffee table. The most striking part of the place is ceiling-to-floor windows and the panoramic view, from Mount Spokane on the north to the skyline of Spokane to the south.

“Nice view,” I say.

“Yeah,” Don answers, like he's heard it before.

He sits in a stuffed chair, and I sit on the couch.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, I say, “Thanks for covering for me.”

Don doesn't say anything.

I hesitate and then add, “I don't know why you did it, but thanks, and I'm sorry, Don. It was a shitty thing to steal your car. I mean it, I'm really sorry.”

Don laughs, not a big stupid laugh, more of a chuckle. It surprises me.

“What's so funny?” I ask.

Don, still smiling, says, “I was just thinking of the look on your face when you pulled into the driveway last night.”

I try to smile, but I don't see a lot of humor.

Don adds, “You were
so
busted!”

I frown and ask, “Why'd you help me?”

He pauses, sips his coffee, and finally says, “Your mom told me about your dad before I even met you. I'm sorry about your father.”

He's never said a single word about my dad until this moment. But it's okay—for some reason I'm glad that he knows.