You Don't Know About Me (36 page)

“I don't get it.”

“In your dream, you said it felt natural to put your arm around me, and I said, ‘This feels nice.' Maybe that's all it was. Maybe your dream was asking, ‘What do you want your relationship with Ruah Branch to be?' And the answer was simply, ‘Close buddies.' ”

“But we were in a motel in the same bed.”

“We've been in the same camper for a week, sleeping five feet away from each other. That doesn't make anyone lovers.” He shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, Billy, but I'm ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure you're straight. If you doubt it just give yourself another test. Next time you walk down the street, ask yourself who you imagine naked, the women or the men.”

“It's that simple?”

He laughed. “For guys, pretty much. We're pretty dumb that way. Of course, I'm talking about sex, not love. Love's a whole different ball game. And for God's sake, don't spend the rest of your life beating yourself up over last night. People get loopy and do crazy things. When you're
young, experimentation with the big three—sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll—sometimes just gets down to the company you keep. Hell, if you'd traveled two thousand miles with a whale-sexual, you might've gotten to Portland, forgotten your father's treasure, and headed straight to the water for some whale watching.”

“You keep talking about whale-sexuals,” I said with a smirk. “Are you saying you're one of those, too?”

He laughed. “No, I'm not bi. But I do believe every man and woman walking the earth has it in 'em to be a zigzag-sexual.”

“A zigzag-sexual? Is that something you learn in health class?”

Ruah grinned. “You'll only hear it from me. It's one of my dumb theories.”

“And I suppose it comes with the all-the-way-to-Portland travel package?”

“No, this one's an extra. You see, hard-core straights say God makes everyone straight, and that gays are sick and need to be cured. Hard-core gays say we're all hardwired to be straight or gay and being either is our ‘sexual orientation.' What if they're both wrong? What if the sexual urge is like any other human appetite: it can change over a lifetime? I mean, if a little kid who despises eating his vegetables grows up to be a full-on vegan, then you have to say his ‘vegetable orientation' has changed. When it comes to the appetite for sex and intimacy, I don't think it's much different. Appetites change. So if we're made in God's image, and He
is
a zigzag God, then we're capable of zigging and zagging right along with Him.”

I heard what he was saying, but I had zigzagged to other things. My eyes were seeing the morning sun bouncing off the Columbia River. My head was filled with a parade of pretty dresses moving along a street. And my imagination was doing whoop-de-doos on the mounds and curves underneath them.

Before driving into Portland, we took an exit for gas. I did the usual and went in to pay. Next to the counter was a newspaper rack. One of the papers had a box in the corner that read
CINCINNATI LAVENDER
? I opened the paper to the story. It was about a rumor that Ruah Branch wasn't rehabbing with a Triple-A team in Louisville, but had “gone AWOL to the YMCA.”

I bought the paper and showed it to Ruah. “What's it mean?”

“It means Joe is tired of losing seven grand a game.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Get to Seattle ASAP.” He threw the paper in the garbage. “Grab our change and buy a Portland map.”

We drove to the old part of downtown between the office towers up the hill and the docks by the river. The closer we got to the river, the more run-down things got. There was a big Salvation Army cross sticking out from one building. A grungy park was jammed with trailers selling
ethnic food. Farther down, among Chinese shops and hippie stores, we turned onto Couch Street. The camper rattled and squeaked on the potholed street.

“There it is!” I shouted. I didn't need to see the address to know it was Boot Heel Collectibles. Sticking out from the store was a boot-shaped sign. I kept thinking how my father's footsteps had sounded on this street hundreds if not thousands of times. My heart thudded against my ribs like his ghost was running down the street to meet me.

Ruah pulled past the store toward a parking space.
BOOT HEEL COLLECTIBLES
arched in gold letters on the plate-glass window. A Closed sign hung in the door. The lights were out. The sun lit a dusty layer of junk in the window. Beyond that was darkness.

We parked past an alley. Ruah pointed to a pay phone up the street. “I'm gonna make a call, then I'll see you at the store.”

I jumped out and ran down the sidewalk, yanking the shoelace-key over my head. In the door, a handwritten sign under the Closed sign read
DUE TO A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
. I'd never thought of it. Maybe he had a family. A wife, kids, my half brothers and sisters.

I slid the key in the doorknob. The door swung open. A bell
dinged
over my head, making me jump. I stepped inside and hit a light switch on the wall. Nothing came on. There were light sockets hanging from the ceiling, but the lightbulbs were missing. Why would anyone take out the lightbulbs?

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the semidarkness. Some light spilled through the window. Between the narrow
aisles, glass cases and counters were cluttered with stuff. A lot of it was printed with the same black silhouette and
MARK TWAIN
. There was everything from ash trays and dusty Mark Twain bourbon bottles to wooden swords with
TOM SAWYER
and
HUCK FINN
painted on the blades. His store was almost completely dedicated to the spirit of Mark Twain. But there was another spirit roaming there: Richard Allbright. I studied everything. Even the smallest item might give me the last clue to where my father had stashed the bad book.

When I circled back to the big window, I saw a thickset man hurry by, out on the sidewalk. There was something weird about him. His jacket collar was turned up and his head was down like he was walking into a cold wind, but it was August and windless. I moved into the doorway so I could see him go up the street. He pulled open the camper's passenger door and got in. I couldn't see where Ruah was, at the pay phone or in the camper.

I started to go outside but realized the man might see me in the camper's outside mirror. I moved through the shop to a back door. It was ajar and banged up. Someone had broken in.

I scooted through the door, down a narrow alley to the bigger alley, which led to where the camper was parked. I stayed close to the wall so the man couldn't see me. When I got to the end of the alley, I snuck a peek. The man was sitting in the camper like he owned it. Ruah was getting back in the driver's side. He wasn't afraid of the guy. It was like he knew him. I flattened against the wall so Ruah couldn't see me.

“How's it goin', Rue?” the man said. I recognized the gruff voice. It was the guy from Coors Field, Joe Douglas.

I could just hear Ruah. He didn't sound happy. “How did you find me?”

“Been doing some detective work.” Whatever he said next was drowned out by a passing car. Then I heard, “… a boy named Billy Allbright. It seems you've been traveling with him.”

“How did you find me here?” Ruah asked again.

“By doing what I do best, negotiation.”

“I bet that set you back a few bucks.”

“Chicken feed compared with what we lose every day you miss. By the way, is that real or part of your new look?”

“It's real. It's broken.”

“Why are you such a fuckup?”

“Why are you such an asshole?”

I heard Joe's yippy laugh. “If it turns you on to think of me as an asshole, it doesn't bother me.”

“What do you want, Joe?”

“The same I always want. You in the closet so you can keep rakin' in the max.” He chuckled. “You rub my Brokeback Mountain, I'll rub yours.”

“Then why did you plant the bit about me rehabbing at the Y instead of down in Louisville?”

“To smother the truth: you traipsing around the country with fuckin' jailbait. The way I see it, we call a press conference, you deny the gay rumors, and everything goes back to normal.”

“ ‘I'm not gay, I never have been gay,' that kind of thing?”

“I like the sound of it.”

There was a pause and then Ruah said, “Will you give me twenty-four hours?”

“Between friends, sure.”

I heard a door open. I scooted back down the alley. I didn't know how Joe Douglas knew my name, found us here, or knew about Boot Heel Collectibles. I still had my father's card. The knot in my stomach told me it had something to do with Dumb—me keeping Ruah's cell phone—and Dumber—using it.

I went back in the store through the back. I checked the cash register. It had money in it. It was getting wonkier by the minute. Whoever had broken in had taken the lightbulbs but not the money. I thought about the bad book. Maybe someone else knew about it. Maybe they'd gotten there first and found it. Then a death-cookie thought popped up. What if Joe Douglas knew about it? What if he was the one who'd broken in?

My eye caught a tiny glow of light in the back corner of the store. I moved to it. It came from a small desk crammed behind a display case. The desk was cluttered with paperwork and a phone. Its red message light was on.

I pressed the message button. A voice announced, “Two old messages.” I replayed them. “Alright, treasure hunter,” a raspy voice said—it was my father's—“listen up, and listen good. Actually,” he said with a dry chuckle, “don't listen to me, listen to Walt Whitman.
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles
.”

I hit the pause button, and repeated the line out loud.
“If
you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”
I wondered if the store had a basement.

I played the second message. My father's voice but rushed, urgent. “There's a group, Billy, they want to destroy the bad book. I've hidden it well, but I fear they've learned of your treasure hunt. They may be on to you. Keep a sharp lookout. And please, Billy, hurry.” The machine beeped.

My mind ripped. I tried to keep thinking and not get sucked into the panic I heard in his voice. Then I remembered that the machine had said they were old messages. Someone had listened to them already. That's who might've broken into the store: the people who wanted to destroy the bad book. If it was them, and they were ahead of me in the hunt, they might've beat me to it. I stomped my foot. “Shit!”

The sound boomed in my head … along with the echo of the first message.
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles
. It was a clue! Whoever stood near the desk listening to the message was supposed to look under their feet.

I dropped to my knees and looked at the floor in the semidarkness. It was grimy old linoleum. I ran my hand over it. I hit a small tear in the linoleum. I grabbed the tiny flap and pulled it up. It tore like an old rag. I pulled away the part where I'd been standing next to the desk. In the dim light, all I could see were old floorboards. I brushed my hand along them. A splinter stabbed my thumb. I jerked my hand back, then flattened it down where the splinter
had jabbed me. There were grooves in the wood. It felt like someone had carved something.

It was too shadowy to see. I thought about running out to the camper to get a flashlight. But there was a quicker way. I found a sheet of paper and a pencil on the desk. I put the paper over the carving in the wood. I swiped the pencil across it, making sure the tip caught all the edges.

I took the impression to the store window. It showed an address: 132 Mars Hill Road. It was the next clue. I let out a breath. The linoleum hadn't been torn up before me. Whoever had listened to the messages first hadn't figured out the next clue. I was the first one to get the address.

I stuffed the paper in my pocket and ran out onto the sidewalk. I panic-stopped.

The camper was gone.

Why Ruah took off, I couldn't figure. Maybe it had to do with the part of his conversation with Joe I didn't hear. Maybe it was the twenty-four hours he'd asked for, and he couldn't wait any longer. Whatever, it wasn't like him to leave without saying goodbye. Especially after all the stuff we'd been through. But I didn't have time to worry about it. I had to find the bad book.

I went back in the store and cleaned out the cash register. I told myself I wasn't adding robbery to my heap of
sins. I was collecting an allowance from my father for the first time ever.

I found a taxi and asked the driver to take me to 132 Mars Hill Road. “That's way out of town,” he said.

I counted the money from the register and what I had left from the last cache. “Is sixty-seven dollars enough?”

“That'll do.”

Fifteen minutes later we drove through countryside with a mix of small farms and McMansions. We turned on an unpaved road: Mars Hill Road.

The taxi stopped at a rusty mailbox: 132. “You want me to go down the driveway?” the driver asked.

Weed-choked wheel ruts ran about fifty yards through an overgrown field. At the end, an old farmhouse with faded paint and missing shutters rose from the brown weeds. Behind it, a barn collapsed next to a cement silo.

“You sure you got the right address?” the driver asked.

I'd only looked at the paper a hundred times. “Yeah, this is it. How much?”

I paid him sixty dollars and started walking toward the farmhouse. Getting closer, I saw ragged white curtains in the upper windows. I thought I saw someone move behind a curtain, but it was just a breeze billowing the curtain in the open window. The place looked abandoned. I half expected to see one of those
CONDEMNED
stickers on the door. Or one of those spray-painted symbols rescue teams leave after a flood, meaning the house has been searched and there are no bodies. There were no signs or symbols, just paint flakes clinging to the siding. For all I knew, there was still a dead body inside.