Where You Are (16 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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A double Band-Aid stems the flow, but the bleed-through leaves a watery red smudge on my keypad a little later as I delete the text messages in my in-box one by one, reading each one one last time before I let it go forever. There are 199, one short of the maximum my phone will hold. I've already pared them down repeatedly, saving only the most recent and the most personal. I don't keep any of them now.
Just another homework assignment that I will dutifully complete because he's the teacher, and I'm just the student.
The most recent text, however, is from Nic, sent minutes after school let out for the day, about the same time my mom was signing away any small hope I had of pursuing a college education of my choosing.
OMG OMG OMG. Your dad! I just heard. I wondered where you were this morning. You must be completely devastated!!! I know I am. Krystal and I are going to make you something tonight to make you feel better. Oh, and if you get a new suit for the funeral, be sure to buy one with skinny legs. Trust me on this.
On a low shelf that runs along the far side of my desk, next to a sticky ring of something red (Hawaiian Punch, maybe) are the Iron Maiden tickets my aunts gave me for Christmas. I hadn't mentioned them to Nic.
I pick them up and notice the date. I know that if I step outside, I'll be able to hear the relentless bass two miles away. But I don't go outside. I drop the tickets in the wicker basket next to my desk, delete Nic's text, and go to bed early.
 
Andrew
 
When I told Jennifer I'd take her up on the concert, I wasn't thinking about actually
going
to the concert. I was running for cover, hiding my privates like a kid in a locker room who's just been pantsed.
Despite another dose of pain killers and a glass of wine at home, I am still strung tighter than a drum, irritable, and wanting to be anywhere but in a car on the way to a concert with Jennifer Went—especially a concert by a band that's not only a little long in the tooth, but is known for squirting fake blood from a papier-mâché mask on stage. It's unfair to Jen, but I can't seem to shake my bad mood. She attributes it to a bad day at school. I don't dispute that.
“Come on,” she says, reaching between the seats for the blanket she tossed back there when I picked her up. “I'll buy you a beer, then give you a back rub. You'll be chillin' and enjoying the music in no time.”
Not likely.
It's hard to chill at a metal concert, but I don't argue when she takes my half-empty cup of Shiner Bock later, sets it aside on a level square of trampled grass, and insists I assume the position.
I read somewhere that the lead singer—Bruce something-or-other—could raise the dead with his powerful vocals. I don't know about that, but his
powerful
voice and the thundering bass drum and crashing symbols are like spikes in my brain. Still, I think I actually doze as the band blisters through its first set, Jen's thumbs digging into my muscles, easing the soreness that still lingers from Friday night's guard practice. I don't even complain when she slides her hands up under my shirt and works her way up and down my spine. I just let myself experience it, and let my mind drift, unguarded, to a blue-eyed, blond-haired kid with chewed-up hems on his jeans and a killer smile.
I see him close his eyes and bite his lower lip as he pops and locks to the music, the sweat beaded up behind his ears as he spins and comes up on his toes like a skateboarder, then loses his balance and stumbles forward, the grin when he challenges me to prove myself in the parking lot. I feel the warmth of his hands when he positions mine on the rifle, the solidness of his body when he embraces me before saying good night. I won't say that I imagine the fingers that have slipped beneath the waistband of my jeans are his, and I won't say that I don't.
I will say that when a couple of my students call out a hello to us as they head to the concession area for sodas during the band's break, I don't turn over. Still lying on my stomach, I take a sip of warm beer and reluctantly let go of his image.
Chapter 19
Robert
 
People I barely recognize, and many I don't recognize at all, mingle in the vestibule. There are lots of hugs, quiet conversation, and quieter laughter. A sixteen-by-twenty framed photo of my dad in his younger days sits next to the guest book. Before the wake, every single person who signed their name seemed to find it necessary to comment on how handsome he was as they sniffed and took a prayer card from the stack.
Near a large potted palm, my dad's old college roommate chats up the priest, who is apparently congratulating him on a beautiful eulogy, despite the fact that said roommate hasn't seen Dad in ten years. The second eulogy was given by my uncle Michael (Aunt Whitney's husband) who's never spent one moment alone with my dad. The third and fourth were given by my aunts, who both sobbed as they told about the brother they cherished, the husband who was devoted to his wife, and the father who was devoted to his son.
I didn't even know who they were talking about.
I huddle outside the men's room door and watch these strangers. From their midst, Mr. Gorman emerges and makes his way over to me. He hugs me warmly, the way I imagined a father would hug his son. “You okay, buddy?”
“Yeah.”
“If there's anything you need . . .”
“I know.”
Uncle Thomas weaves his way through the crowd. I introduce my band director to him. The two men clasp hands, and Mr. Gorman expresses his condolences.
“You ready?” Uncle Thomas says, turning to me. “Everyone's gathering at the casket now. Your mom sent me to get you.”
“I'm not going.”
“Of course you're going.”
“No, I'm not,” I say pointedly.
Mr. Gorman shifts uncomfortably. “I'll be at the funeral tomorrow, Robert,” he says. I nod and thank him. He squeezes my shoulder and leaves.
“They're waiting for you,” Uncle Thomas persists. “This is your last chance to say good-bye to your dad before they close the casket.”
I shake my head. I don't know why I don't want to view my dad's dead body. I just know that at the moment my feet are rooted to the floor. I don't belong there.
As if he can read my mind, Uncle Thomas reminds me why I feel like such an intruder.
“Don't be a pain in the ass. This is something you do for the family.”
“I
am
the family,” I say, stonily.
Chapter 20
Andrew
 
I know I'm sticking my neck out, but I don't care. The guilt is eating me up on the inside. The need to be there for him, overwhelming. They don't own me, and there are no do-overs. I will never be able to make up for abandoning him on this day.
Mrs. Stovall is not at her desk. With a confidence I don't feel, I knock on Mr. Redmon's open door. He's typing but glances up briefly and motions me in. I get right to the point.
“I'd like permission to attend Mr. Westfall's funeral this afternoon.”
Mr. Redmon's eyes remain fixed on his computer screen. “No. We're short on subs today.”
“I can get someone to cover my sixth- and seventh-period classes.”
He ignores me, but I am not giving up so easily. This is nonsense.
“Robert is my student. He talked to me a lot about his dad. I feel like I'm letting him down if I don't at least make an appearance at the funeral.”
Mr. Redmon settles back in his chair and finally looks up at me. “Robert Westfall has seven teachers, Mr. McNelis, in case you've forgotten. I can't release seven teachers to attend a funeral. Ms. Lincoln, Mr. Hough, and Mr. Gorman are already going. There's no need for you to be there. I suggest you send a card to the family.”
The argument is stupid. I doubt even one of those other six teachers, with the exception of the band director, has expressed any interest whatsoever in attending the funeral. And Logan Hough? The twelfth grade assistant principal? I doubt Robert even knows him. He's not the kind of kid to spend a lot of time in the AP's office. I tell Mr. Redmon this and suggest I go in Logan's place, but he doesn't budge.
“I'm not releasing you. That is my final word.”
I know what he's thinking, and it pisses me off.
“I could ride over with Ms. Lincoln or Mr. Gorman.”
I wait for him to respond to my suggestion, but he ignores me. After a long moment, I stalk out of his office, furious.
The funeral is scheduled to begin at one o'clock. Mr. Westfall is Catholic, so the services will be held at St. Mary's. In the next few minutes before my planning period ends, I call the church. If I can't be there for the funeral, maybe I can be there for the family gathering after the burial. I jot down the information the church secretary gives me.
Until this morning, I hadn't even considered trying to attend the funeral. It was Kiki who changed my mind.
She'd been especially hard to disengage when I dropped her at Ms. Smith's Village. She clung to me, she cried big two-year-old tears, she begged, “Daddy, no leave.”
Robert had said he wanted his father to die, but I wonder if somewhere down deep inside, he's crying too.
Daddy, no leave.
I've really known Robert for only a little over four weeks, but I feel like, in some ways, I know him better than anyone else. I feel like he's shared with me his deepest hurt.
I need to be there.
When the final bell rings, I usher the kids out, lock the door, and use the MapQuest page I printed to find my way to him.
 
The family is gathered at the home of Robert's aunt, Dr. Whitney Bloom. The house is in a transitioning neighborhood where large, ostentatious homes on small lots dwarf the 1950s-style one-stories of older residents who are still holding out. Two homes on the street are under construction. The cars packed in the driveway and the photo attached to a gas lamp point the way to the house.
I find a place to park on the curb six houses down and walk back.
Through the thick leaded glass, I can see the mourners. A middle-aged man in a dark gray suit opens the oversized, heavy steel door. I reach out my hand. “I'm Andrew McNelis, Robert's Calculus teacher.”
“Oh. Thank you for coming,” he says, gripping my hand firmly, then swinging the door open wide.
“Robert's here somewhere. I didn't see you at the funeral?”
“I couldn't make it. Is it okay if I'm here?”
“Of course it is. Come on in. There's plenty of food in the kitchen; please go help yourself. I'll see if I can find Robert.”
I thank him and migrate toward the food, but I'm not hungry. Still, I don't know these people, and standing around with my hands in my pockets is awkward, so I take a plate someone hands me and lay a few slices of ham and a roll on it and wander back into the living room.
It's cool but sunny outside, and someone has propped open the French doors. Two young boys, twins, a few years older than Kiki, are taking turns dunking a junior-size basketball into a Little Tikes hoop a few feet away from the pool, while the adults sitting at the patio table look on. They seem relaxed, and I think, were it not for the black suits and dresses, this could be any poolside party.
No one pays any attention to me, and I don't want to intrude on the gathering of family and friends, so I continue through a wooden gate that leads to a covered area just outside the garage.
I almost don't see Robert. He's sitting on the concrete pad, his back pressed against a stone column. He's staring out at the construction the next lot over. As I settle onto the concrete next to him, he looks up, surprised. His face is pale and pinched.
“I didn't think you'd be here,” he says.
I offer him some ham, but he shakes his head. “Have you eaten anything today?” I ask.
“Not hungry.”
I set the plate on the ground next to me. “Your dad must have had a lot of friends. That's quite a crowd in there.”
Robert smirks. “They're my aunts' friends, colleagues, I don't know.”
He looks back at the construction. I study his profile as the silence stretches out. He's gotten a haircut recently, his sideburns trimmed with neat precision. But he looks exhausted, like he can barely keep his eyes open.
“Are you sleeping?” I ask.
“You know, I didn't even know we were coming here until Father Vincent invited everyone at the end of the service.” He scoffs. “Mom and I spent all day cleaning the house yesterday, and now everyone's in there telling Aunt Whitney and Aunt Olivia and my grandmother how sorry they are for their loss. They look at me like I'm just some random kid who was dragged to the funeral by his parents.”
“What about your mom?”
“She disappeared right after we got here. I think she's upstairs taking a nap. It's been a hard couple of weeks on her.”
He stretches out his legs for a moment, then pulls them back to his chest.
It makes me angry to think how self-centered these people are. This day should be about this young man, comforting him, offering him words of encouragement, but here he sits, alone in a carport, and nobody inside even seems to notice his absence.
“Why did you come?” he asks. “I thought Mr. Redmon read you the riot act?”
“Yeah, well. Mr. Redmon may be the boss of me at school, but he doesn't own me. I couldn't get away for the funeral, but I wanted to be here for you, even if I am a little late.”
“Ms. Lincoln and Mr. Gorman came. Mr. Hough too.”
“I know. Did they talk to you?”
“They didn't come to the cemetery, but they did come through the receiving line after the funeral. Ms. Lincoln sent a little magnolia tree with one bloom for us to plant in the yard.”
I smile. “That's a nice gesture.”
Robert is still wearing his suit, but he's pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and when he stretched his legs, I noticed that he's holding a small notebook. “What's in the notebook?” I ask.
He looks down at it for a moment like he's just seeing it for the first time, then turns it over twice in his hands.
“One of my aunts gave this to my dad before he got so bad he couldn't write anymore. It was so he could record his memories, words of wisdom, his hopes for my future . . . his love.”
He bites his lower lip, then looks away. I take the notebook from him and open it. I flip through the blank pages and silently curse the man who dared to call himself a father.
He's beginning to twitch. I lay my hand on his shoulder. “Robert . . ”
He suddenly pushes himself to his feet and stumbles over me, fishing his car keys from his pocket. I catch up with him at his car. “Robert.”
He turns, his face stricken. “I have to get out of here.”
I nod and hold out my hand. “Let me have your keys. I'll drive.”
He hesitates, then hands them over.
I hit the unlock button, then get him settled in the passenger seat before climbing behind the wheel. When I crank the engine, Muse's “Uprising” explodes from the speakers. Robert doesn't even flinch at the loud music, and he doesn't complain when I drop the volume.
I don't think about where I'm going when I pull his car into the street. I just drive, glancing across the console at him when I can. He's folded his arms tightly across his chest, and he's twitching more violently, almost like he's cold. And I know he's hurting, for the father he's lost . . . or maybe the one he never had.
A short time later I find myself pulling into a parking space in front of my apartment. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is a bad idea. But I'm not thinking about consequences; I'm thinking about a young man who's falling apart.
The efficiencies are aligned along the back parking lot, the bottom units each with a front door and a broad window overlooking the concrete front porch. The last time Robert had stood on that porch, I'd sent him away.
I wrap my arm around his shoulders and walk him to my apartment as he furiously wipes at his eyes. But once I unlock the door and show him in, he turns and falls into me.
“It's okay, baby.” The words are out of my mouth before I can check them. I close the door behind me and hold on to him as he sobs into my shoulder, his fingers gripping at the back of my shirt. When his anguish dissolves into something like hiccups, he turns his face to my neck.
“Come on,” I say, pulling away. I settle him on the futon, then bring him a small glass of wine and sit on the sofa table in front of him.
He takes a sip, grimaces, then drinks the whole thing down. I reach for the bottle and refill his glass. He stares into it, but he doesn't drink again. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly.
“Don't be. Everybody needs a good cry every now and then.”
He sniffs and swipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “When was the last time you cried?”
I want to make him feel okay about letting go, but it seems important that I be honest with him. So I tell him the truth. “I don't know. I guess it's been a while. I almost cried this morning when Kiki wouldn't let go of my pants leg. I had to shake her off like a dog. That hurt like hell.”
He smiles a little, but it lasts only a moment.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask.
He shrugs and swallows hard. “I thought I'd be relieved when he died,” he says finally, turning the glass around in his hands, “but I just feel so damn empty.” He looks up at me. “So damn . . . insignificant.”
“You're not insignificant.”
He searches my face, and for a moment, his eyes settle on my mouth. I feel like some invisible elasticity between us, like a rubber band that has been stretched, is about to release. And then his eyes find mine again, and he says, “Thank you.”
He looks around at my apartment. From where he sits he can see every inch of it, with the exception of the bathroom and the inside of the closet. “Where do you sleep?” he asks.
“You're sitting on it.”
“I'm in your bed?”
“I'm going to pretend like you didn't say that.”
He laughs a little, the first really happy sound I've heard him make in almost a week. I realize how much I've missed that. It feels like the sun rising on a cold winter morning.
“Can I use your bathroom?” he asks.
“Are you going to nose around in my cabinets?”
“Probably.”
I smile back at him and nod my head toward the bathroom.
While he's in there, I look for something to feed us. The toilet flushes and then the faucet turns on and then off again as I pull out leftover burger patties and buns from the night before and set them on the counter. I can hear him opening the medicine cabinet, the cabinet under the sink, the shower curtain. I think he's doing it all loudly so I'll know. I have no secrets, but I'm amused by his blatant snooping.
I turn on the toaster oven. I'm just slicing a tomato when I hear the rush of water in the tub. The distinct bubblegum smell of Mr. Bubble wafts under the door.

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