Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2) (15 page)

T
he next day
, Tara made us both eggs and bacon and served them with orange juice. She was less hostile than normal, didn’t use any swear words even once. She made the bacon the way I liked it—a little rubbery, just this side of trichinosis. But I couldn’t enjoy it because my sister was somewhere in town and Mom liked chatting with stalkers on the phone. Also, I’d just found out my father was dead.

“How are your eggs?” Tara said.

“Great,” I said, and took a bite to prove it.

Through an astonishing degree of stupidity on my part, Mom had noticed a pattern in the calls I’d made over the years. How could I have been so careless, saying the same lame thing every time?

Tara and I were sitting across from each other at the glass-topped breakfast table in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” she said, staring at me over her coffee mug.

“Looking at the ceiling.”

“For answers?”

I didn’t know what I was looking for.

“You’ve been weird since you came home yesterday,” Tara said. “Weirder than usual. I know we’re … you know. But that doesn’t mean … Look, we go back a ways. So if there’s something wrong. Other than, you know…”

I needed to get back in the game.

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “My tooth’s hurting me, that’s all.”

The old failsafe.

Tara shrugged and began fiddling with her phone. She had a fancy swipey phone like Scott’s, and she was tapping away at an astonishing speed. She had clear smooth skin and pretty white teeth, and her tongue stuck out daintily when she was concentrating, and boy was she concentrating. Glossy brown hair like Sandra Bullock. No perfume.

“What?” she said when she caught me staring.

“Nothing,” I said.

Tara shook her head and went back to tapping on her cell phone, and I went back to my bacon. When I was done, I got up to put my plate in the sink.

Tara glanced up and said, “Are you going to church with me?” Her tone was rigidly casual, and I wasn’t sure whether to say yes or no.

Growing up, I never liked church and I hated nice clothes. Something about all those people dressed up and being friendly to one another made me nervous. As if any moment someone would go bananas and start yelling profanity and throwing punches. Churches were mostly empty and echoed like caves, and for some reason people thought it made perfect sense to burst into song every three to four minutes, even if they couldn’t hit all the notes. Those times I’d gone, I mouthed the words and spent a lot of time wondering if anyone would notice if I didn’t keep standing up to sing.

A few rides back, my dubious relationship with all things churchy took a slide when I’d run into Anthony Hendricks, the man I mostly thought of as the minister. He’d touched me once, on the shoulder, and nearly kicked me out of my ride. And when he looked at me I felt like running away or passing out or confessing my sins right there and begging for forgiveness. So when Tara asked if I’d go to church with her…

“Yeah, I’ll go,” I said, surprising myself.

After breakfast, Tara went upstairs to get dressed.

I had on shorts and a T-shirt, which God hates. Looking through Scott’s guest-room closet, I found a white long-sleeved shirt and dark pants and put those on. Then I switched out my sneakers for loafers and dress socks, which God likes.

Tara came down in a short-sleeved blue dress with a dark hemline just above the knees, appropriately snug, and a black leather belt around the middle. On her left wrist was a matching black bracelet, and she wore a tiny cross on a delicate gold chain around her neck. Her hair was twisted in a rope over her shoulder. She stood at the base of the stairs watching me, her bright eyes shining like the first light of creation itself.

“Jesus,” I breathed.

“What?”

I cleared my throat and pointed at her cross. “That’s him right there.”

Tara smiled briefly, then stepped past me on the way to the garage, trailing an elusive floral scent. And me.

Upon entering the garage, she said, “Scott … what happened to our car?”

Yesterday, in my preoccupation with Mom and the news about my father and sister, I’d forgotten those idiots had broken the window and messed up the door. To me it was just a car. I didn’t have to get it inspected or repaired or have the tires rotated or any of that. Unlike Tara. To her, anything bad that happened to one of the family cars was a big deal.

“I forgot to tell you,” I said.

“Well, what happened to it?”

She circled it carefully, looking at the smashed-in side window and the glinting cracks in the windshield. The side panel was bent inward from where I’d kicked the door into Johnny.

“Vandals,” I said, shaking my head. Crime’s a terrible thing.

Tara gaped at me like I had a spider on my face.

“Did you call the police?” she said. “Did you call the
insurance company
?
What the hell, Scott? When did this happen?”

Found out and sick of the lies, I told her how I’d come out Tony Packo’s after a healthy lunch of salad and water and found the car all beaten up. A couple of other cars nearby were worse, and when their owners came out and saw the damage we called the police and filed a report.

Tara said, “You didn’t make separate police reports?”

“There was a lawyer in the group,” I said. “He said this way’s more efficient. Trust me, that guy knew his stuff.”

The moment stretched with neither of us saying anything.

“I’ll never trust you again,” she said at last.

Just like that, all the barriers from that first night returned and flew up around her, shutting me off again. Scott was a cheat, and I needed to watch it when I threw around words like
trust
.

Tara handed me her keys. I said my toothache was bothering me and handed them back, that way she wouldn’t get suspicious when we drove all over the city for no good reason. She didn’t suggest I go to the dentist. She didn’t ask if I’d taken any medicine. She took the keys, got in, and didn’t talk to me the whole way to church.

After parking, Tara gave me a pointed look and said, “You know what? You need to make this count. Not just for me, but for you.”

We got out.

St. Stephen’s was close to the river in an area more densely populated than Perrysburg. Across the street stretched a row of small single-family homes. On this side, the church towered without pity over the world and its sinners. It was brick and big and quite beautiful in an early romantic neo-Byzantium rococo impressionist sort of way. Upon entering through the central door, one of three, I didn’t blow away in a puff of smoke or get attacked by beatific beings with flaming sabers. So I was able to enjoy the distillation of a thousand years of early Pleistocene, upper gothic, lower renaissance, eastern realist, and western iconoclastic architecture. Sculpture and columns, ceiling murals and all that horrible echoing from my childhood multiplied by a thousand, all of it collected in one place to add to my feeling of insignificance.

Ah, church.

There were glossy wooden pews, and people were grabbing the good seats left, right, and center. Before Tara could pick one of those, I snagged a spot in the back, way off on the side. She tossed me a funny look and then sat down next to me.

Cautiously, I poked one of the pleather-bound prayer books in the holder in front of me. Nothing happened.

“Why did you do that?” she said.

I quirked her a tiny Mr. Spock and said, “I’m being … mysterious.”

Tara half smiled, shook her head, then turned toward the front of the church.

Yesterday, I’d found out where the games were on Scott’s phone. I was playing one of them when an echoing voice asked us all to bow our heads in prayer. Organ music groaned loudly from regions groany, and Tara poked me in the side until I put the phone away. Then everyone got up and sang a song while the altar boys walked solemnly around carrying things and doing stuff with the candles.

I made like I was singing while the others sang actual words. Tara had a beautiful voice, and I wondered if she ever did karaoke. I stole a glance at her: pure singing, lovely profile, so alive, so nice.

It was the best moment I’d ever had in a church.

When the singing ended everyone sat down, and a familiar voice said, “The Lord be with you.”

“And also with you,” droned the congregation.

When I looked to the pulpit, Anthony Hendricks, aka “the minister,” was standing there in white and gold robes surrounded by altar boys on either side.

I
was so shocked
by the absurd development I sat with my mouth open through the next song and into the next prayer:

“God our Father, your gift of water brings life and freshness to the earth. It washes away our sins and brings us eternal life. We ask you now to bless this water, and to give us your protection on this day which you have made your own. Renew the living spring of your life within us and protect us in spirit and body, that we may be free from sin and come into your presence to receive your gift of salvation. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”

Then, like the world’s most reverent hecklers, the congregation said, “Amen.”

Time seemed to fly in that suddenly too-small church as I absorbed the shock of the minister’s presence over and over again. It was him. It was
him
.

At one point Tara said, “Are you ready for communion?”

She stared at me intently while I sat there not getting up for crackers and grape juice. I didn’t dare for fear of being shunted into the line with the minister. And no, I wasn’t ready to think of him as
the priest
yet.

“I’m not hungry,” I said absently, and immediately wished I could take it back.

“That’s not funny,” she whispered, her expression hurt.

Why couldn’t I keep my big mouth shut?

As if proving something, Tara got into the middle line. The one with the minister.

Near the end of the service I said I needed air and went outside. My plan was to slip home and tell Tara I’d left because I wasn’t feeling good, which would get me off the hook for my lack of zeal. Then I remembered we’d come in the same car.

It was almost like Someone was interfering with things. First, Mom says my sister’s in town, and now the minister shows up in Toledo at Scott and Tara’s church. A lot of coincidence in the span of two days.

About ten minutes later the people let out—the women chatting and taking their time, the men shuffling, waiting to grill burgers and drink and watch sports. It wasn’t football season, so at least they were safe from all that hegemony and objectification of women.

I craned my neck, hoping for a glimpse of Tara making her way out, but didn’t see her. I climbed the steps, poked my head inside, and found her and the minister just inside the doors talking like best friends.

“Scott!” he said, and reached over to shake my hand.

Before the unthinkable happened, I faked a noisy sneeze into both my hands.

Almost as quickly, the minister’s hand retracted.

“Coming down with a cold?” he said, an amused smile on his kindly face.

His supernatural voodoo didn’t appear to be working, because I didn’t feel like throwing up or running away or any of that. If he touched me, that’d change. Might even kick me out. Even if it didn’t, he’d know who I was, and I wasn’t ready for another long theological discussion with him. Also, I had no idea what he was doing here. As a priest, no less. The old minister had seemed to scoff at such religious rigidity, preferring Universalism to Catholicism. Could it be that our running into each other, years ago, had somehow kicked him back the other way?

“Must be dusty in here,” I said, and made a show of wiping my hands on my pants. “Sorry about that.”

Tara was staring at me in disgust. When the minister turned to her, her face morphed into sweetness and light and cheery amusement, and for a second I wondered if maybe … ah, nope, as soon as he looked back at me, Tara made with the mean look again.

The minister leaned closer.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Scott,” he said in a low voice. “The church offers marriage counseling for free, as I’m sure you’re aware. And as a psychologist, I’m sure you also know the power of a shoulder to lean on, even if it’s attached to an old celibate like myself.” This last with a soft chuckle.

A line of people stood nearby waiting to talk to him.

The minister stepped back, gave me a significant look, and added, “I hold confession here every Wednesday at 8 a.m.” Then he was off to greet other people.

As soon as his back was turned, Tara stormed out.

W
hen I was
a one year old baby, I couldn’t understand what my parents were saying to each other, though it all sounded very funny at the time. After dying, I’d pieced it together—a harder task than you’d think. Being a baby was a world of sound, color, and sensation, all perfectly mingled with this pervasive sense of either
happy
or
sad
. Mom and Dad were
happy
. My toy was
happy
. And sometimes the world was
sad
, like when I woke up and it was dark for no reason and I was alone. When I remember my babyhood, there’s this annoying happy-sad stuff saturating all those funny sounds my parents were making, such that I have to consciously say to myself, “Aha! After Dad picked me up, he said, ‘We’re going to Grandma’s.’ ”

When Tara and I arrived home, I poured myself a quick glass of orange juice and headed toward the living room, hoping to snag the television before certain other people got there first.

“I’ve decided to move back with my mom,” Tara said suddenly, stopping me in my tracks. “She said she’d fix a room up for me.”

Even though Tara was Scott’s wife, I felt that same primal feeling of
sad
, just like when I was a baby.

“Just for a few months,” she said. “We need time. You need to decide if we make this work or if we … you know. Like we talked about that night when … when
she
called here. Divorce.”

They were Catholic, which made it a bigger deal than for others.

“When are you leaving?” I said.

“She’s bringing the truck down next weekend.”

I nodded.

“Why did you have to mess it up?” Tara said. She was crying a little. “What’s wrong with
me
? Why couldn’t I be enough? Was fucking that stupid woman so important that you had to ruin everything else, too? We were gonna have children and do everything right.”

Openly weeping now, Tara fled the kitchen.

The Great Whomever must really have hated suicide, to put me through this. That poor woman, all that pain, and it was my job to take the brunt of it and keep from somehow making it worse. I assumed. It wasn’t always obvious why he sent me back, but back I went, obvious or not. Usually there was a lot more blood and screaming and guns.

Standing in the kitchen listening to Tara crying upstairs, I almost wished for one of those rides.

Tara avoided me for the rest of the day, and I contented myself with doing housework. Laundry, vacuuming, and other mundane tasks kept me occupied and gave me time to think about my own problems for once. My dad, after all, had died. How, I didn’t know, nor when exactly. I missed him terribly. Him and Mom, both.

Back when it all began, on my first ride ever, I came close to returning and convincing them I was still alive … around … whatever I was. I’d regale them with incredibly specific anecdotes, verbatim quotes, and other impossible-to-know information—like how many stitches my sister got when she fell down the stairs. Or how, at five years old, I’d gotten out of bed and walked almost a mile to the supermarket to steal a rubber ball. Then, parroting my babysitter and her mean friends, I’d cussed-out the cops when they questioned me.

There were plenty of stories to go with that one. They’d have been convinced by the time I finished, as well as horrified—their world turned upside down, their memories of me transformed into something twisted and nightmarish and wrong. So I’d done the right thing and stayed away.

Before going to bed that night, I thought about locating my sister, Jane. She was sure to be in the City Directory, available at any library. It’d be no big deal—bump into her at a supermarket or something. Strike up a conversation. I was good at worming information out of people. I’d tell her she looked Dutch. I’d be pleasant, not weird, because I’d have flowers in one hand and wine in the other. Like I already had a girl. So it must be a real compliment and not some creepy pickup line. Dad always called Jane his little Dutch girl, and given enough time with her I’d know how he died.

Maybe I’d do that tomorrow.

My last thought before falling asleep was,
But I have work tomorrow…

S
ometime in the
middle of the night, I awoke to someone shaking my shoulder. It was Tara, crouched by my side with a robe thrown hastily around her.

“What?” I said. “Huh?”

“Shh! There’s someone in the house.”

When my eyes gained focus, I saw by the meager light through the curtains she was frightened.

“Here’s the gun,” Tara said, and thrust a pistol into my hands.

“Did you call the cops?” I said.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, “what if it’s just an animal or something? I’ll look silly.”

That’s a funny thing about humans. They’d rather die than look too silly to take basic defensive measures to save their precious lives. Rather than go to the other side of the street to avoid a group of young men in gang colors, they’ll keep walking along. Maybe even say hello as they pass, just to prove a point. Wouldn’t want to seem sexist or racist or classist or whichever
ist
was eating at them. They’d spin that wheel and see what happened, but they wouldn’t look silly.

I shook my head. “Tara…”

“Don’t Tara me,” she said, pulling her robe tighter and glaring at me.

I listened carefully, and she listened too.

“I don’t hear anything,” I said.

“Can you just go look? And
please
be careful with that gun.”

I smiled at the concern in her voice.

“If you hear gunshots, call the cops. Deal?”

“Yes, now
go
.”

Scott’s gun was a silvery .38 snub-nosed revolver. I checked the cylinder and it would fire on the next pull, provided it wasn’t a dud. If it was, I’d pull again. Better than a semi-auto for dealing with duds.

I crept down the stairs, straining to hear something. At first it was quiet, and then I heard a door open in the kitchen. I came around the corner, gun pointed down. Nobody was in the kitchen, but the door to the garage was wide open. I stepped past the dishwasher and the little table we’d eaten breakfast at and peeked into the garage.

Someone was in Scott’s car with a flashlight. I flipped the light switch and squinted at too much light in my night-adjusted eyes. Whoever was in the car yelped and scrambled out. I held my gun steady and pointed it at him, squinting to see if
he
had a gun pointed at
me
.

It was a tense moment, and then George the Jeep guy said, “I just want my rifle, Schaefer.”

“What?”

“You took my rifle,” he said “It was a Christmas gift and I want it back.”

He didn’t have a gun on him, I could see that now. Maybe he had one hidden under his shirt.

“Why didn’t you come ask me during normal hours?” I said.

“Would you have given it to me?”

“Probably. So long as you promised not to shoot me with it.”

“I was just supposed to scare you,” George said. “Johnny…”

“Yeah,” I said, “what’s up with that? Why’s he so pissed at me?”

George pulled a big, goofy grin, like I must have been kidding him.

“You serious?” he said. “You, uh … that is … Melody said you were stalking her. That’s what
she
said, man, not me, and would you
please
stop pointing that pistol at me?”

Finally I knew why I was here. Scott the big fat stalker. Easy enough to fix. If he’d gone further than that I’d find out eventually, and Tara had even handed me the right tool to deal with it. She was a good person, Tara. I hated to see her made a widow, or married to a prisoner and all that entailed. At least if I killed myself, she wouldn’t need to do the whole divorce thing. I could admit my crimes in a note, like I’d done so many times before. There wouldn’t be any doubt about whether to love me or hate me … I mean Scott. Or maybe she’d blame herself anyway, the way everyone did.

Dammit.

“I’m sorry, man,” George said, sounding blubbery and afraid. “Please lower that gun, would you? I’ll just leave, okay?”

“Hold on,” I said, and walked over to a cabinet against the wall. I opened it and pulled out his dumb hunting rifle, then handed it to him.

“Jeez, thanks,” he said.

Just then, Tara walked in and shouted, “He’s got a gun!”

George appeared more afraid of her than she was of him. He held the gun tightly, not pointing it at anyone.

“Tara, it’s okay,” I said.

“I’m calling the police!”

She marched back to the kitchen.

To George I said, “You stay put,” and followed after her.

I grabbed her shoulder just as she picked up the landline and said, “He’s a patient. I’m working with him on something important and if you call the police it’ll ruin everything.”

Tara slapped my hand away and said, “What? He’s got a gun! What kind of breakthrough is that?”

“He was trying to
give
me his gun, not shoot me. I’m trying to get him to give up hunting to help his … reattachment to nature.”

She had her thumb poised over the numbers, no doubt ready to dial 911.

“Tara, seriously,” I said. “Hold on a minute and listen, okay? Please?”

Still holding the phone, almost like a weapon, she said, “Make it good.”

“I’m trying to tell you he’s a hunter, and getting him to stop shooting animals is part of his therapy. It’s the Jungian Pentangle technique—a breakthrough development in psychotherapy. Cutting edge stuff.”

Tara’s eyes widened a little, and then she laughed.

“Jungian
Pentangle
therapy? That’s what that is in our garage? At…” She looked at the clock. “Two in the morning?”

I nodded gravely. “Cutting edge.”

Tara shook her head and put the phone down. “Get him out of my house.”

Then she stomped out of the room.

“
Our
house,” I corrected, though low enough she wouldn’t hear me.

Moments later, I heard the sound of a bedroom door being slammed. In addition to good cable, the Schaefers also had impressively sturdy architecture.

Back in the garage, I said to George, “Okay, you got your gun. You know where Melody lives?”

He nodded.

“I’ll drive behind you,” I said. “You’re going to take me past her house. Got it?”

Again, George nodded. He was looking at the gun in my hand.

Reluctantly, I stopped pointing it at him.