Rusty Summer (13 page)

Because we are in Canada the road signs have changed to kilometers. I try to remember how to convert them to miles. The road we are on isn't busy so it's okay while I work it out.

Approximately, it's “half + front number.”

So: 90 km an hour means 90 divided in half plus nine.

So: 45 plus 9 is 54 miles an hour, so really 55 miles an hour, just like home.

I remember this from my friend Shazzie, from Scotland. She said that's how they kept from going way too slow when she and her family came to visit America once, before we were friends on Facebook. Her family wanted to see Mount Rushmore, which I never have—or even considered.

It's intriguing what people come to America for.

We get on the road, going the right speed, and settle in once more.

Like I said, farmland, rolling for miles—er, that would be kilometers—as far as the eye can see. We roll into tiny towns and out again, mostly just an intersection and a store.

The van has run pretty well since our trip to San Francisco. Mom helped me get a really good tune-up recently so it'll purr on the drive, in spite of the mileage.

We all get in long-distance mode, looking out the window, doing our various thing, when Leonie pipes up.

“So what would have happened at the border if you did have a record?”

“They won't let you come into Canada.”

“Even if it's like a parking ticket?”

“No, but just about everything else,” I say, “because the punishment doesn't fit the crime.”

“So then it's good Beau didn't get caught in the arrests at that protest with what's-his-face.”

“Yeah. Plus, he would have gotten beat up. But it's also good Beau protested,” I say. “I just thought Kurtis was a little
too
okay with Beau going to jail. It's like he wanted him to get in trouble.”

Leonie is quiet, which usually means she's thinking and will soon come up with something that will make me do a spit take.

“Rust, I don't think you like Kurtis,” she informs me.

“Nope.” I vigorously agree.

“Well, that doesn't make sense.... I mean, why not? Isn't he gay?”

I look at her in the rearview mirror. I resist the urge to roll my eyes dramatically while driving.

“Leo . . . Leo, Leo, Leo. You never fail! I think you plan to make me mental eventually! Ahhh! Listen, whether he is or not, I don't like people just
because
they're gay! Where do you get this? That is as crazy as not liking them just because they're gay! People are defined by their words and actions! Like right now I'm defining you as a complete lunatic, because of your words and actions!”

She makes a face at me in the mirror.

“I just thought you liked gay guys.”

“I do! Especially the ones who are nice to me! But if they're gay and treat me bad, then guess what? I'm not friends with them. Just like with anyone else. It's about what's inside people . . . be nice or go home.”

Leo nods judiciously. “Yeah . . . I feel you.” She returns to watching the terrain.

After a few hours, at dusk, we pull into the motel that I googled. I thought it looked cheap and okay. They have cable and a coffeepot and a microwave. There are two queen-size beds.

We get the idea to push them together so it's like a giant sectional. If we lie sideways there is room for all of us, including Bommy. We throw our sleeping bags over the blankets and rearrange the pillows. It rocks. We get comfy and settle in to watch TV. Beau e-mails on his smart phone. I eyeball him but he just grins at me and moves his phone so I can't see who he's e-mailing.

I really hope NOT snotty Kurtis!

I start to eat my sandwich. Beau starts to eat his. Leo scarfs on a dry head of lettuce.

Beau and I glance at each other, but we don't bust on her. We're a little worried about her.

We stay up watching basic cable. Eventually we crash, leaving the TV on quietly in the background.

 

In the morning I wake up early. Bommy does too. We go out for a walk. I take her leash, as a precaution, but she is so reasonable she never takes off.

It's the rainbow leash the uncles got us for Christmas before last. She still wears her collar that says
The Bomb
in gold thread with a glittery fuse at the end of her name. It's in good shape.

I think about the uncles as I walk with her on the empty country lane. The Bomb investigates everything. I stand with her when she stops.

I wonder if the uncles would have a theory about my dad, or lack of. I wish they were here. They helped us to be brave and effective when we came back from San Francisco. We friended them on Facebook and they sent us different links to pages about anti-bullying, and how to legally respond to intimidation, and all kinds of useful, important stuff.

I want to e-mail them and ask how to cope with so much nothing from my dad. It's weird to even be thinking and worrying about him.

I had kind of settled with him in my mind, after so much time.

He just isn't that into us.

We stand by a cow pasture in the early, pinkish light and The Bomb stares at the cattle. There are calves, tiny and still a little wobbly. The Bomb looks at me like, “what are they?”

We loiter, because we know the other two won't be awake yet. When it gets to about nine in the morning we go back. They will sleep till noon if I don't yell real loud.

“MOR-NING!” I yell real loud. I pull open the curtains.

“STOP!” They screech in sleep-synchronized unison. “GO AWAY!!”

So not morning people. They cough and groan.

“Bommy! On the bed! Up! Give 'em some wake-up love! Here, girl!! Smooch 'em!”

She jumps on them. They wail. She doesn't care. She smooches away. I pull away their pillows. They rise and gimbal and become, if not cheerful, at least vertical.

It's terrible, horrible work waking this crew up but someone has to do it. We begin our preps for the day, showering and e-mails. We're on the road quickly, after I make (crappy) coffee in the room and microwave mush. Leo just has the crappy coffee.

We head northwest, deeper into British Columbia.

Beautiful
British Columbia, as we are reminded frequently. (It's their slogan.) And it is beautiful—it's so big. Deep woods, then farmland, then woods, then a tiny town or two, then deep woods, then farmland. I start to feel like those old cartoons where the background is on an endless loop.

As we drive I see there are all these old gnarled apple trees in the different orchards and pastures, which reminds me of this story I heard on NPR about how there used to be thousands of different varieties of apples—one per orchard, pretty much. I start to tell Beau and Lee about it and I look in the rearview at them and they are
so
not paying attention, their eyes glazing over.

“You are totally not listening to one word I say! How can this not be interesting for you guys?!”

They both snort because they are busted. The Bomb yawns.

“It's
so
not.” This from Leo in the rearview. Beau just snickers and looks out the window.

“Dudes! The apples will be lost forever! How can that not fail to be important?” Even as I say it, I realize I do sound kinda nuts.

“I know, and I'm pretty sure that's a drag; but you know so many things and you give us so many lectures and, no offense, Rusty, but most of it is sooooo boring! Seriously! You just know too much stuff that no one cares about! You should be a guy on TV people ask about things, or in a court of law, or something. Or like a
preacher
. No offense.” She stretches as she looks out the window, rolling her eyes.

I monitor her by way of the mirror.

“Thank you, Leo . . . none taken. The reason I tell you these things is to make up for the giant gaps in your education. I'm helping you and you're very welcome. Your gratitude nearly overwhelms!”

However, I reflect that I am trying lately to not be such a colossal know-it-all. It's hard. When I read some of my old blogs from our first trip, they're so conceited and overwrought that I sort of just snort and face-palm. I'm hoping that
someday
I'll think it's cute. (Though “omg/gawd” for “God” remains handy, until I resolve my conflicted opinions about capitalization.)

That's the thing about the Internet, all your old childish stuff is up there to see forever: the way you talked and thought and looked;
everything
. It's like a time capsule. And all I got in my own defense is I was SO isolated. I didn't really have friends; I just sat in my room and watched the world being horrifying, and then made scandalized pronouncements. It's easy to judge from that safe distance, and I was pretty brutal. But things changed. I get out more now and that lets me see things more clearly, and I'm
trying
to be less judgy. Though mostly I fail—everyone's still doing it wrong. But now I kind of realize when I'm being annoying . . . eventually. So yeah, if anyone needs me I'll be in my room, editing my epistle to the Ephesians.

I stick my tongue out at Lee in the mirror and turn the music up. We drive in silence for a while.

Farmland prevails. Then hella trees. Vietnam War tunes loom like the dark woodland. We traverse the wilderness.

After a couple of cloudy hours of moody landscape we stop and let Bommy out.

She sniffs the air in a nervous way that is unusual for her. She is, as a rule, just glad to be with us and never minds the wildlife, but this time she stops and looks around and then sniffs again. I watch worriedly. I have no clue. We're city slickers. She pees and we move on.

As we pull into the quiet road, I accelerate to the speed limit and we cruise. Leo rolls her window down a little and The Bomb sticks her nose out.

After we have been driving for about a half hour I see the check engine light go on.

What?!! My heart lurches sickeningly. I immediately panic.

Maybe that was what Bommy smelled . . . trouble!

Totally unexpected! We just had a huge checkup and oil change and every damn thing. I hate breakdowns! This is unacceptable.

I am always terrified by the thought of getting stuck somewhere in the outback, with the ghosts and freaking monsters indigenous to deep woods! My hands get sweaty and my heart starts hammering.

“Rusty, are you okay?” Beau is frowning. I must be turning either red or pale.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.” I start sniffing the dashboard for burning oil smell or something.

I'm looking at the gauges—straining to see if there is anything different—still driving—squinting—sprinting—periph-eral motion—

“Rusty! RUSTY!! Look OUT!! OMG—LOOK OUT!!” Leonie screams. So does Beau.

I jerk up—just in time to see the blur from the corner of my eye leaping into the road. I brake and swerve but it does no good whatsoever. We fishtail.

The deer springs, arching, straight at us, onto the van, trying to jump over it.

It doesn't.

It hits the hood, and smashes the front.
Splat.
It thuds horribly. Its head slams down on the windshield and fractures it into a glass spider web. We scream at the impact and go into a spin—

We can't see. Everything flails and flashes and I think we are going to die. We scream and scream and brace. We spin around and around, nauseatingly, and come to a stop, half on the road, and from what it feels like, half over the ditch. The van wobbles but doesn't pitch over and we are still.

Things stop spinning. It gets quiet.

The engine is steaming. The whole front end is crumbled.

I look around at us and we are okay. We were wearing our seat belts.

Leo has The Bomb smashed in the legroom beneath her.

Everyone looks at me. I notice my hands are shaking. I open my mouth but I can't speak.

Them either. We sit gasping and unbalanced. The van teeters. We brace ourselves—

But the teetering stops.

Then we hear an awful noise . . . unearthly and prolonged. Hideous. Excruciating pain.

It catapults Beau out of the car. The rest of us quickly jump clear. The van seesaws at our departure. As The Bomb leaps out, the van topples headfirst into the ditch. But we barely notice, for there is something much worse....

The deer isn't dead.
It's been thrown into the ditch too, a ways away.

But it's
so
not dead.

We look at each other, sickened.

Carnage.

The deer is twisted up and its chest is broken open. You can see its guts and bones, but it's
very
conscious. Things slosh inside it when it cries—things we shouldn't be able to see. I think I can see its heart beating . . . gelatinous and horrible. Its movements are freakishly normal; it looks down and examines the chaos its innards have become.

It looks at us and we stare back. Its huge terrified eyes seem to be imploring.

“I'm so sorry . . .” I whisper. I don't know whom I'm telling more, the guys or the deer.

The deer makes the horrible noise again. It stabs my ears and my heart. My fault . . .

It's so messed up. Its leg is like almost snapped off . . . a compound fracture . . . sort of dangling . . .

“We have to help it,” quavers Leo. “We can't leave this poor thing.”

We are in shock. I start to remind her we can't go anywhere, but it's too much trouble to talk.

“How?” comes out of me like a sigh.

Beau has been standing, horrified and frozen. He springs into action. First, out of instinct, he tries 911. There is no such thing here, in the middle of nowhere. The deer groans loudly. Its head flops.