Catch & Release (27 page)

“You OK? I got you some more coffee. High octane this time.”

Odd pulls his sleeping bag down from where it covered his face. “Yeah,” he says. “I'm alright.”

“How's the knee?”

“Hurts a little. Stiff. But it feels like I own it,” he says and sits up to reach for the coffee. He looks good for somebody I thought was going to die.

 

“Do you have the address?”

“What address?”

“The address where that douche Bridger works. You know, the place we are going?”

“No,” I say, but I don't say the rest of it, which that I'm not going to see Bridger. There is no point in trying to reach him. Bridger isn't my future. My river doesn't run in his direction. I'm over him. He is a douche. That's for certain, but it doesn't matter. He isn't my problem. He can find someone else and become her problem. He probably already has. It doesn't matter. I'm over it. I'm over him. I don't need revenge. I don't need to appear all scarred and stained with blood and chocolate pudding to yell at Bridger because he doesn't love me. But Odd doesn't know that. He's still pretty excited about the whole thing going down. As far as he knows, that's still The Plan.

I need to stall.

“I'm hungry. Let's eat.”

“Yeah,” says Odd, “and we can figure out where we are going, too. We need a plan. There's a place here somewhere that sells bacon doughnuts.”

“Well, get your pants on then. I'd just as soon you do the driving if you can,” I say.

“Me too,” says Odd.

 

Traffic is streaming around us and we are streaming with it. Should we take this exit? The next one? Is there going to be a sign marked “Bacon Doughnuts”?

“I think I need something more like food than a doughnut,” I say.

“Thai?” Odd points down the cross street.

“That's a one-way.”

“Crap, how do we get back on the interstate?”

“Just follow the arrows.”

“Morrison Bridge, that looks good, we'll take that.”

But first we're stuck at a stoplight beside a real estate business. The sign says, “Home is only the beginning.” The light changes and Odd heads out. We act like we have a plan. And we do, at the moment. Pretty soon we are crossing the Willamette. If I were a fish, I would know I was heading the wrong direction. The waters of the Willamette would not smell right. They would not smell like home.

 

It isn't easy to park D'Elegance on the street. She's a prehistoric pig. She wants more room than a delivery van. Once we find a space big enough, we still need to figure out how the parking meter ticket thingy works.

“No biggy,” says Odd. “It doesn't matter.

“It's the law,” I say

“Seriously? You know the license plates on the car expired ten years ago, right? Look, we'll eat right over there.” He points at a pizza place. “If somebody comes around to write a ticket, we'll just explain. We'll explain how you don't like to break the law. I'm sure they will be real impressed.”

Some things never change. Odd might be one of them.

“I need to find an ATM. We'll probably need cash for the pizza. You can wait for me there.”

And he does. When I get back I find him in front of a pinball machine.
The Sopranos
it says. How much story is there in a pinball game? Does having pictures of fat old gangsters on it make it more fun? It isn't like there is some sad chick with big hair crawling away on her knees in the woods and when it goes TILT she gets shot in the head. Or is it?

 

The pizza is hot. Big leaves of fresh basil are wilting in the steam rising up from the tomato sauce and cheese.

“I'm done,” I say.

“What you mean?” asks Odd. “You didn't even eat any of it yet. Then he picks up a piece of pizza bigger than his head, folds it, and steers the point into his gullet.

“No, Odd. Not the pizza,” I pick up a piece of my own. The food smells good, full of heat and life. The cheese stretches out like a suspension bridge from the slice in my hand to the pieces waiting in the pan. I break the connection. “I'm just totally done. I'm going home.”

 

I hand him a wad of bills. It's as much as I could get out of the ATM, minus the cost of pizza. I hand it to him while I get my stuff out of the car and shove it into a big black trash bag that was in the trunk. There are some coffee cups and chip bags in the bag already. I don't care.

Odd doesn't say anything. He just stands there with his hand full of twenties. Maybe he thinks I just want him to hold it while I get myself organized.

I touch his hand so he understands. “You can spend it on a tattoo. You can spend it on bacon doughnuts. But there's enough there to get gas if you want to go home,” I say.

He shoves it in his pocket. “You ever seen the ocean, Polly? Because we are that close. It's crazy to come this far and not see the ocean.”

“I've seen the ocean,” I say.

“We could go all the way like Lewis and Clark. We could go to Cape Disappointment. You seen Cape Disappointment?”

Cape Disappointment? That question is harder to answer than it ought to be. I saw the ocean from a sand dune beside Monterey Bay. My dad was holding my hand, and he said there were seals and otters and sharks out there, even whales. We were going to the aquarium to see them. But the sharks were only babies and there weren't any whales, except for bones. So I've been to Cape Disappointment lots of times, I think. Who hasn't? I look at Odd's face and try to read out why he wants to go there. There is something pure about his face, pure like a river ought to be. There is nothing hiding there, I think. He just wants to see something that hasn't changed since Lewis and Clark saw it. And the ocean hasn't changed because it never holds still. There is no good reason why Odd shouldn't do what he wants.

“If you go to Cape Disappointment, you might not have enough money to make it all the way home. But that's OK. You just get as close as you can and then you call me. Like, if you get as far as Missoula and you can't get back, you call me. I'll come get you.”

“Hey.” The hug surprises me. It feels for real. It feels good, and before I move away I rest my forehead under his collarbone on his chest. I can hear his heart inside my head, but it is probably my imagination.

“Hey,” I say. And then I pick up my garbage bag and my rod case. It is time to go.

“Hey,” says Odd, “Can you do me a solid? Can you give these letters to my Gramma Dot? I don't know what her address is going to be when she gets back. You know? So if you could take them, you could get them to her, since you're going that direction.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” I say. I wait while he pulls the pages out of a little notebook he carries in his pocket. He folds them up into a crooked wad and holds them out to me.

Then I pick up my garbage bag and my rod case. It's time for me to go.

 

On the streets of Portland there is really nothing weird at all about a grubby girl carrying her stuff in a black plastic garbage bag. Here I could pass for normal, almost, until someone got a good look at me. But really, nobody looks that hard at a grubby girl and her garbage bag—at least not on this street at this time of day.

But I'd like to pass for normal in the airport. A normal person does not board a plane carrying a rod case and a garbage bag. A garbage bag is not a conventional carry-on.

Luggage. It is my lucky day, the sign across the street says, “Luggage.”

I get pretty immediate attention, as a grubby girl should in a not-so-grubby place. “Give me the cheapest duffle this big.” I hold my hands out like I'm telling a fish story, a fish story big enough to hold my sleeping bag , fishing vest, and tent.

He looks a little suspiciously at my debit card—and then at my face. I lay the driver's license of Polly-That-Was on the counter. Then I put my Montana fishing license beside it. The signatures match.

The transaction is complete.

“Where can I catch transport to the airport?”

The guy points.

“Thanks. Got it.”

But I have one more thing to do.