When You Were Older (32 page)

‘Well, I’ve had to have some skin grafts. And afterwards I need to be very careful with them. I had to figure out how to push the numbers on the phone with the eraser end of a pencil. I held it between my wrists.’

‘Does it hurt a lot? Are you in a lot of pain? Will you tell me about how it was for you, how it is? I haven’t known, and I’ve been going crazy.’

‘I will. But maybe not right now, if that’s OK.’

‘Does it hurt to hold the phone now?’

‘I have it on speaker.’

‘Oh. Good. So …’ I wasn’t sure how to say what I wanted to say next. ‘So you did have my phone number the whole time?’

‘Yes.’

Long pause. It had to be said, though. ‘So is that really the only reason you didn’t call? Or is there more?’

Silence.

I was not about to fill it.

‘Well. There was also the fact that I was not alone. My father gets someone always to stay with me. Because there’s so much I can’t do on my own. And there were other problems. I had to get a neighbor to buy me a
pre-paid
phone card. So my father wouldn’t see this on the phone charges. But to be truthful …’

Here it comes, I thought. My gut turned to concrete and steel, preparing for the hit. I thought again about – or maybe just
felt
about – that phone call I’d finally made to Kerry. My silence had already told her everything she needed to know. The call was just to confirm. I steeled myself for the assault I felt coming.

‘… actually, there were two times I was alone. But not for long. And it was near the beginning. I was on a lot of painkillers. I felt like I couldn’t think clearly. I knew you’d ask me if we would ever see each other again. I didn’t know what I would say. I needed more time.’

‘Will we ever see each other again?’ I felt disinclined to prolong my misery.

‘See? I was right about that.’

She waited, probably to see if she’d made me laugh. Even a little bit. But I wasn’t in a laughing mood.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘This is why I’m calling. This is what we have before us to be discussed.’

A great rush of excitement came up through my pathetic, useless armor.

‘You mean we might?’

‘Well, of course we
might
. Might is easy. The hard part is knowing what you really will do. For sure.’

‘Where are you? Go ahead and tell me.’

‘I am in Kafr Dawar.’

Her words reverberated inside me, as if I were entirely
hollow.
As if I were a cave in which she could set off an echo.

‘You’re in Egypt?’

‘Yes. My father took the insurance money and flew us back.’

‘I could send you a plane ticket.’

‘And how would you afford this? They’re not cheap.’

‘I’m selling my mom’s house. When the sale goes through, I’ll be all set again. Plus I just had a good job interview. I might be working again soon. But I’ll buy you a ticket right now if you want. I’ll put it on a credit card. I’ll be paying them off soon enough, anyway.’

‘I can’t go back to that place. That awful little town with those awful little people. I couldn’t live there after what happened.’

‘Well, you’re in luck. Because I’m back in New York.’

‘But … Russell …’

‘What?’

‘It was easier when we lived in the same town, and we could just go on getting to know each other. Let’s say I fly there. And … what? We are then living together? After knowing each other for how long?’

In the silence that followed, I breathed in and out about three times. I purposely made the breaths deep and slow. I closed my eyes and wished for the right words. Not the words most likely to manipulate her into doing what I wanted. The right ones.

‘Here’s what I always tell myself in situations like this. I’ll give you the same advice I’d give myself. Picture
yourself
looking back on the decision ten or twenty years down the road. Let’s say you try it, and it doesn’t work out. How much will you regret it? Now let’s say you don’t try it, so you never know. Then how much regret?’

I’d guess it was about thirty seconds that I sat there. Looking at the empty spot on the skyline. Watching snow swirl weakly outside my window. Wondering when she would speak.

‘I miss you,’ she said. ‘I have to think about this. I’ll call again.’

‘I can’t call you?’

‘No. You can’t call me. I’ll have to call again. When I can. I don’t know when that will be.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure,’ she said. But she sounded unsure.

‘Do you think war is always pointless?’

‘That’s a strange question. That’s not what I thought you were going to ask.’

I wanted to explain, but my thoughts were too much of a jumble. Nothing came out.

‘I don’t know if war is always pointless,’ she said. ‘I know it’s always tragic.’

‘OK,’ I said. Feeling a little better. ‘I can live better with that.’

‘What was— Oh. My father is home. I have to go.’

And then the click.

I sat there on the floor by the window until after three in the morning. Not really even thinking. I can’t recall
thinking
much of anything. Just echoing. Reverberating. Like an empty vessel. Maybe that was the good news. Maybe emptying out was the first solid step toward a genuine reset.

THE PHONE WOKE
me at the crack of 11 a.m.

I grabbed it up before it could finish its first ring.

‘Is that you?’ I asked desperately.

‘Hmm,’ a male voice said. ‘Yes and no. I
am
me. But I have a funny feeling I’m not the me you were hoping for. Officer Nick Michelevsky. From your lovely hometown. The thriving metropolis of Norville.’

‘Oh,’ I said. What else could I say on such short notice?

Note to self: Just say hello. Don’t assume it
is
Anat.

‘You sound asleep.’

‘I was.’

‘Isn’t it
later
where you are?’

‘I was up most of the night.’

‘Right. Well. All sleeping habits aside. You’ll never guess who turned up on my doorstep this morning. Seven o’clock sharp. With his full entourage. I bet you’ll never guess.’

‘I bet I won’t even try.’

‘Chris Kerricker. Plus controlling dad, crying mom, and nervous attorney. All of a sudden he has a new version of events. All of a sudden it turns out he just might have been in attendance that night, after all.’

‘That’s … bizarre,’ I said. ‘I tried everything to make him admit that.’

‘So we all noticed.’

‘What changed?’

‘Two things. According to him. Time. I guess you can bear the weight of a thing like that for a while, but it gets heavier as time goes on. But I don’t think that was the main thing. I think the main thing that got under his skin was this article in the paper about your mutual friend Vince Buck.’

‘Right. I know. I read it.’

‘I think it confused him. He told me they were calling that night “Make a Muslim Pay Night”. That was their cute little felonious nickname for it. Figuring somebody had to pay for what happened to Vince. Now it turns out they should’ve been taking it out on some blond-haired, blue-eyed American family. Apparently Vince’s death at the hands of the enemy was the one thing he could really hold on to in all this. Made him feel justified.’

‘Maybe it’s not confusion. Maybe he really gets it now. That it’s not all so black and white.’

Michelevsky snorted laughter. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Kerricker’s a pretty basic thinker. I looked into his eyes a
couple
times and didn’t see anything quite so nuanced. Anyway. Now we got a situation on our hands. Because his statement this morning is pretty much exculpatory for a certain blood-relative of yours we all know and love. Wouldn’t be for somebody else. But for someone with Ben’s … capacity …’

‘What did Chris tell you?’

‘He still claims he wasn’t a key player, but at least he admits Ben wasn’t, either. He says he stayed pretty far back – him, Chris, not him, Ben – too far back to hear most of what was said, but he saw Jespers pour the gasoline, and he wasn’t liking the turn of events so well by then. I think he didn’t know the night was about to go in quite that heavy a direction. So he was just about to take off. But then he saw what happened. He says Ben didn’t exactly
throw
the match. He said it was more like Ben
dropped
the match. Jespers hands it to him, and keeps badgering him to do it, but Ben isn’t doing it, so then Jespers kind of … you know … barks at Ben. And it makes Ben nervous, and when Ben gets nervous he gets clumsy. You know that as well as anyone.’

‘Oh, my God,’ I said. ‘That
so
totally sounds like Ben.’

Finally. Finally a version of events that made sense.

‘That’s what we all thought. So now we have a bit of a problem. This could spring your brother.’

‘
Could?
Why
could
? Why not
will
?’

‘Well. I think it’s still up to the doctor in charge. I could actually be wrong about this, because I haven’t run it all by them, yet. And this is the first we ever had
one
of these around here. This could take some looking into. But I think somebody at the hospital would still have to certify that he’s no danger to himself or others. Granted, this was the only thing we had on paper to say he was. So let’s just say if the doctors and the hospital employees haven’t seen anything to suggest otherwise … I can’t say for a fact it’ll go this way. Like I say. It’ll take some looking into. A little legal sorting. But, now, let’s just say he gets sprung, which could happen. Here’s the problem. What the hell are we supposed to do with him?’

‘That’s not a problem. I’ll come get him.’

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed. Looked around for my shoes. Then I realized it would take days to tie up the paperwork. And that Ben was in Kansas, not down in the lobby.

‘Ben in New York? That’ll be some kind of transition. That, I’d like to see.’

‘I bet he’ll like it better than where he is now.’

‘I’m just glad it’s you making the transition with him, and not me. That’s all I’ve got to say.’

THE WOMAN BEHIND
the desk at the state hospital got talky with me all of a sudden. Which was odd. She never had before. Maybe it made a difference that my status had just changed. I was no longer next of kin to one of the dangerous loonies she helped incarcerate. My next of kin had proven well short of dangerous. And besides, he’d been officially released. We were just waiting for him to be brought out.

‘So, did you fly out here?’

‘No!’ I said. As if she’d asked me if I’d just jumped off a tall building or through a ring of fire.

‘I don’t blame you. Nobody wants to fly now. My friend in LA took a plane. She’s cavalier. She says they’re watching airports more than any place, so it’s safer than most other things. But you know what she told me? They have soldiers in uniform at the LA airport. Standing by the security checkpoints, holding AK-47s. Soldiers. Like a GD war zone. That would
freak
me out way too much. So how did you get here?’

‘I drove my mom’s old car again. I have no idea how many more miles it’s got in it, but I took it for a check-up and a service, and it seems OK. I really hated to drive all this way again. I just drove home a few days ago. But I didn’t like my chances of getting Ben on a plane anyway. I can think of a dozen parts of the experience that could freak him out. Besides, I don’t even know if he has a picture ID.’

‘Oooh. I never thought of that.’

The big door buzzed, then popped open. Ben emerged, accompanied by a psych tech I’d never seen before.

‘Hey, Buddy,’ I said.

In typical Ben fashion, he raised his head to look at me, but missed by a mile.

‘Did you come to take me home?’

So here was my moment. I’d had more than two full days on the road to negatively anticipate this moment.

Now I had to tell him that the only house he ever remembered living in was being sold. That all of his belongings were gone. Because I’d allowed them to be sold or disposed of. I had to tell him he was going with me to a new place, and would never again see the town he’d lived in all his life. That every routine he’d ever clung to was gone. That every moment of his life would be unfamiliar from here on out. My only mitigating factor was the hope that all of this would be better than
where
he’d just been. Still, this was going to be one hell of a tantrum.

I remembered Michelevsky saying he was glad it was me making this transition with Ben, not him. Just for a split second I wished I was Nick Michelevsky.

‘Here’s the thing, Buddy. I am and I’m not. I’m here to take you out of this place. But we’re not going to the home you know. We’re going to
my
home. It’ll be a new home to you.’

Then I waited for it.

‘Will you be there, Buddy?’

‘Yeah. I will.’

‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

We were on Interstate Route 35 toward Kansas City. Looking to pick up the 70 into Missouri. In other words, we’d been on the road a while.

Ben had been silent. Absolutely silent. Just looking out the window, but not aimlessly. Really looking. In whatever direction there was something to be seen.

Finally he said, ‘I didn’t know all this was here.’

‘What, the world?’

‘All this.’

He looked around some more. For a couple more miles.

‘Is it a good thing to be seeing it now?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You seem different.’

He looked in my direction. His gaze made it about as far as the gauges on the dashboard.

‘Different how?’

‘You seem quiet.’

‘It was too noisy in the hospital. I hate that. I like it quiet.’

Then he went back to looking out the window.

Ben fell asleep somewhere in Missouri. Slept most of the way into Kentucky. I’d purposely struck a southern route because the interstate was snowy and slick in places.

Somewhere on the home side of Louisville, I needed sleep, too. So I took an exit with four lodging signs, and cruised around until I saw the word ‘vacancy’. I parked in their lot and shook Ben by the shoulder.