Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2) (20 page)

T
he name
of Scott’s bank was conveniently written down on his credit card.

“Can I get a balance?” I said to the nice lady behind the bulletproof glass.

The Schaefers were sitting on more than eleven thousand in checking and over forty thousand in savings. Scott had turned scamming the government and abusing mentally challenged young girls into a lucrative business.

I didn’t want to leave Tara penniless. She was doing the best she could with a real bastard of a husband, so I took out two thousand in a mix of fifties, twenties, and hundreds. Then I got on Route 23 South out of Toledo heading toward Upper Sandusky.

I called the minister at the number he’d put in his email.

“Hello?” he said.

“It’s me.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t get all mushy,” I said. “Slight change of plans.”

I told him what happened at the clinic between me and my sister and left nothing out. Kind of like a confession.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“I don’t think Jane will sell Scott and Tara’s house now. So if you could be there for Tara, after … you know, I’d really appreciate it.”

“What do you mean
you know
?” he said. “I warned you—you’re forbidden to hurt Scott Schaefer!”

I laughed. Cackled, even. All that anger at my sister, my worry for Mom—all of it spilled out in a string of giddy laughter at this man who thought he knew the mind of God when all he had to do was ask
me
. I’d tell him God was out of his gourd.

“Keep it together, Dan,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Just take care of Tara for me. I’d like to get that right.”

The minister said, “Tell me where you are. I’ll bring you in, we’ll figure it out.”

I thought about it for a moment.

“I don’t know,” I said, and hung up.

I didn’t want my cell phone pinging off towers and revealing my location, so I shut it off. Also, I didn’t want to talk to the minister again, and definitely not Tara.

The minister was a decent guy, beneath all the grumpiness. He wasn’t like those bad-apple priests the media gleefully held up as examples of clergy everywhere. He’d use the recordings to save Beth—and it’d kill Tara, the idea she’d married Scott, a sexual predator, a thief, and an all around bad person.

I pounded the steering wheel in rage.

“And you want me to keep coming back here?” I said.

I got off the interstate and filled up the tank. I also bought sodas, water, cookies, chips, and several packages of beef jerky. The less stops to eat the better. But I couldn’t drive forever. I knew of a motel chain that used to take people without a credit or debit card, but it had been a long time. Maybe they didn’t do that anymore.

I hadn’t killed anyone, so the police wouldn’t necessarily turn the state upside down looking for me. The interstates were the fastest route to safety, but I couldn’t risk a possible APB on Scott’s car.

At times like this it’s good to know your back roads, and I knew
all
the back roads.

I stayed on 23 until I got to 30, then took that east through farmland, more farmland, and after that more farmland. Between the farmland and the farmland were places like Canton, Wooster, Mansfield, East Rochester, and East Liverpool. I didn’t pass through them. Instead, I gassed up when I could and skirted around them on spaghetti-like roads that twisted deeper into the country, ever wary of encroaching suburbs and radar traps and good Samaritans. Not that country folk weren’t good Samaritans. They simply had fewer Samaritans per square mile to worry about.

The biggest reason I’d chosen the scenic route had less to do with the police and more to do with me. I needed a break. Never in my wildest imaginings would I have pulled a gun on my sister, nor said such terrible things to her. Sure, her attitude was awful, but her abandonment of our mother was nothing compared to the way I’d abandoned everyone in that little dorm in college. So when I was yelling at her, I was really yelling at myself.

The other thing I needed was a break from Tara, Melody, and her dumb brother Johnny. Having a job, mingling with people—it had sucked me right in. I was like one of those undercover FBI agents who goes so deep he can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. I’d broken one of my biggest rules and had sex with Melody—twice. Then I’d publicly dumped her and insulted her.

In some ways, what I’d done to Tara was the worst. I hadn’t just abandoned her—I’d assaulted our real estate agent for no reason and then driven off. And pretty soon I’d be adding
never to be seen again
to the end of that. If I was here to help her fix their marriage I was messing up utterly with every mile I put behind me.

I’d all but consigned myself to killing Scott. Wonder of all, I felt a tiny bit bad about that. He hadn’t killed anyone. He’d done a lot of awful things, and I’d probably only scratched the surface. But I wanted him severed from Tara’s life completely. It was a selfish decision with an unfair outcome, one I didn’t have the right to make, but I was beyond caring about fairness anymore. Killing Scott wasn’t eye for an eye—it was more like heart for an eye. Or maybe both lungs for an eye. Something critical to live, certainly…

My mind wandered for a while, pondering the various organs needed to keep someone alive. Then I wondered if I’d keep coming back long enough for humans to create robots they could transplant their brains into. Would such beings have super strength? Implants in their brains for speaking vast distances, that kind of thing?

After a while, I turned on the radio and hunted for anything old and good and didn’t think about much except junk food, heartburn, and what I could see through my windshield. I crossed into Pennsylvania just after 9 p.m., way later than if I’d taken the interstate. The whole time, I hadn’t seen a single police cruiser.

There was a motel outside of Pittsburg that used to be fine with cash, and I decided to try my luck.

Scott pulling a gun on someone shouldn’t have been big news, but the media might find it interesting. Crazy redheaded psychologist attacking his patients could make for a lively story. He’d be easy to recognize if the authorities circulated a picture. So it was with a distinct feeling of unease that I walked into the motel lobby, trying to act normal while scouring the ceiling for those little black security domes.

They didn’t have any domes—they had cameras out in the open behind the desk, pointing at the entrance when I walked in. Unable to avoid them, I didn’t bother. It’d just make me look more suspicious walking around covering my face.

A young lady with a tight half shirt was working the desk. She had curly brown hair and dark eyeliner and a silver bracelet with dangling clovers circling one wrist. No name tag.

“I’d like a room,” I said.

She clicked around on the computer. “If I can just get a credit card.”

“Don’t have one,” I said. “Don’t believe in credit.”

“You believe in debit?” she said.

“Debit’s even worse. How about cash?”

She clicked some more and made me pay a cash deposit in case I stole the towels, then gave me my room key. She treated me like girls with half-shirts and clover bracelets had treated me my entire pre-suicide life: like I wasn’t even there.

For once, I didn’t mind.

In the morning, I rolled out and continued my drive, staying on Route 30. With Ohio behind me, I stopped at family-owned restaurants and diners whenever I thought about food, which was often. I made sure not to talk to anyone, and nobody wanted to talk to me.

Again, I didn’t mind.

Four hours later, I switched over to PA-222 toward Allentown. Though I should have expected changes, I wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing the area I’d grown up in. Every road sign had familiar names like Dorney Park & Wildwater Kingdom, and the Allentown Art Museum. Signs I’d seen hundreds of times coming and going on family trips. I wondered what Coca-Cola Park was, and marveled how so many trees had been swapped out for buildings.

But when I pulled into our old neighborhood, except for new fences and a marquis with the neighborhood name spelled out in fancy writing, the place looked pretty much the same.

After finding our street, I parked the car in the roundabout next to the same field I used to build forts in and got out.

Home again.

O
urs was
a small townhouse in a row of three, and when I lived there we had dense shrubbery under the windows, neatly trimmed. The shrubs were still there, but they weren’t neatly trimmed anymore. The powder blue paint didn’t look half as bright as it had when I’d lived there, and the gutter up near the right side was sagging down and pulling away from the roof.

If I’d known things were in such disrepair I would have sent money. Except for the occasional wrong number, I’d been too afraid to look in on them. Too ashamed.

“Just leave,” I said to myself for the hundredth time since fleeing Toledo.

I didn’t leave. I stood in the yard looking first at my old house and then at my friend Miles’s house. The Horners had probably moved on long ago. And Miles … where was he now? Where was anyone I’d ever known?

I glanced at the spot beneath the window and saw the built-in flower holders had been taken out. Back then, all the houses had them, but looking around the courtyard I saw they were all gone. They’d been little more than boxes turned upside down so you could put flowerpots on them, but they’d added a nice aesthetic.

Behind me, a door opened.

In the summer, large wasps’ nests grew underneath the boxes, tucked into the corners, which made it scary getting in and out the front door. Everyone in the neighborhood came and went through the back to get to the communal garages, so most folks probably didn’t even notice the wasps. Just us kids, coming out to play.

“Are you looking for someone?” a voice said.

If I turned around I’d start crying and freak her out, so I kept looking at Miles’s house.

I nodded, afraid to speak.

“I know everyone around here,” she said. “Who are you looking for?”

I’d thought about this moment countless times over the years. Always with me walking in and telling my parents and sister stuff only the real Dan Jenkins would know: long dead pet’s names, teacher’s names, favorite movies and songs, the food we ate on different days of the week, how the kid next door used to stand in the window pressed against the screen, and how one day he fell out and landed in a lawn chair. I’d tell them how Dad worked part time as a handyman in the neighborhood and was always on someone’s roof after a big storm. So many stories, so incredibly specific they’d have to believe me.

I folded my arms so she wouldn’t see my shaking hands, then turned around.

Mom’s face was more deeply lined than I remembered, but still her in all the ways that mattered. Her hair was light brown and glossy with blond highlights, and no gray. She didn’t look like an old woman, hadn’t crossed that indefinable line. I liked that she’d styled it and kept it colored. Her eyes were intelligent and alert, and she was standing in the front yard talking to me, a man she didn’t know.

“I used to live in this neighborhood,” I said. “A long time ago. There was a kid who lived in that house over there.” I pointed at it. “Miles Horner.”

An almost imperceptible tenseness in her bearing seemed to fade. She smiled comfortably.

“The Horners moved away a long time ago,” she said. “How old are you?”

Back then, everyone played with everyone, and she’d wonder why she never saw Scott playing with Miles and her son.

“Thirty-five,” I said. “I didn’t usually play with the big kids, but I remember them all.”

Mom nodded. “So you must remember my son, Daniel.”

I didn’t want her asking lots of questions about me, so I scratched my head and paused in reflection.

“He was sort of my hero,” I said, fondly. “Everyone called him ‘Dan the Man.’ ”

Mom laughed and said, “I don’t remember that part, but he liked being called Dan, yes. What school did you go to?”

“St. Thomas More,” I said. Because no way would Dan the Man have associated with a preppy private school kid.

“You still have family here?”

“No,” I said. “They’re all gone. Dad took a job somewhere, so…”

The wind seemed to pick up. Mom rubbed her arms, though it wasn’t cold.

“Uh, I suppose I better go now,” I said.

Mom smiled like it was okay I needed to go and said, “It’s nice you came back to see the neighborhood. It’s too quiet around here. Smaller families now, and everyone stays inside.”

I nodded, mouth shut, and turned to leave.

“Would you like to come in for coffee? Tea?”

I should have smiled, thanked her, and left. But I made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Then, just like with my sister back at Tara and Scott’s house, something familiar seemed to pass between us. A subliminal, resonating thought, connecting us and yet eluding comprehension.

Mom’s eyes were wise and her half smile inscrutable. Waiting.

I went to say no thank you and take my leave, but messed up and blurted, “That sounds great.”

She nodded like that made perfect sense—a stranger coming into her house for a tea or coffee—and headed to the house.

Though my common sense screamed
leave
, I followed her through the same front door I’d banged out of at high speeds so many times before.

The living room, with the stairs going up on the left, looked very different. I recognized two photos on the walls, and one of the lamps. The furniture was different, and she had a newer model television. Hardwood floors had replaced beige carpeting, and she’d painted the kitchen a pleasant sunflower yellow. New cabinets, too. And there were way more plants than I remembered as a kid.

“Nice plants,” I said, following her into the living room.

“Thank you, I like them too. Having something to take care of is good for a person. Would you prefer tea? Coffee? Something else?”

“Don’t be put out,” I said. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Coffee it is.”

While she was in the kitchen, I sat on the couch and quietly freaked out.

This was absolute madness. I needed to get up and apologize and say I was late for something, be real nice about it
but get out of there
. Nothing good could come from this. She’d say something, I’d say something, she’d say something back, and then I’d pull a gun on her.

No, I’d never do that—I’d left the gun in the car.

Mom popped in and said, “Do you take cream? Sugar?”

“No cream, no sugar, and thanks.”

The Harrises used to live on the other side of the parking garage. One time, Mom and Mrs. Harris were out there talking. Acting like an adult, I’d come up to them drinking a cup of coffee I’d made without permission—my first cup ever. Mrs. Harris told Mom what I was drinking, and Mom took it and dumped it down the sink. It wasn’t for kids, she’d said.

When Mom came out, she placed my coffee on a small table and sat down across from me in a red wingback chair.

“I noticed your gutter’s sagging,” I said, ever helpful.

Mom laughed. “Paul was supposed to fix that. I just … I’ll get to it eventually. Maybe when it falls off.”

“That makes sense,” I auto-responded.

“Don’t you want to know who Paul is?”

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

She took a sip of her coffee and then said, “He’s my husband. He died four years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I also took a sip. Instant coffee. It tasted exactly the same way it had that day with Mrs. Harris.

“Paul took care of the plumbing and electricity and anything involving tools. I took care of the kids, paid the bills, cooked the dinners. We were old-fashioned, but we didn’t know it.”

For a while, neither of us talked. She’d glance at me, I’d smile and take a sip. Uncomfortable for me, but she seemed at ease. Nothing much perturbed her in the old days, either.

“Miles Horner,” she said. “That was a long time ago.”

I nodded.

“So where do you live now?” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name. I’m Cheryl Jenkins.”

She held out her hand.

I shook my mother’s hand, and I didn’t want to let it go ever again.

“Frank,” I said, letting it go.

“Where you from, Frank?”

“These days I’m from everywhere. I’m a salesman. Where I lay my hat is my home.”

“I don’t see your hat.”

I smiled. “Left it at home.”

“You’re joking with me,” she said. “My son used to say stuff like that. All the time. And if I could go back and change things, I would have laughed at every joke. Now it’s too late.”

We were quiet, and then I realized I hadn’t asked why it was too late. I opened my mouth to say something—

“So you know about my son, then,” she said. “That he died.”

I could have denied it, but I didn’t. I sat there with my cup of coffee staring at her—my grieving mother—after all this time. Her eyes welled with tears, her hands shook, and her face reddened with emotion.

“I had the strangest phone call the other day,” she said, “from a man in Toledo, where my twice divorced daughter moved to sell houses to people who can’t afford them. You know what happened then?”

I shook my head.

“That man came to my house. He’s sitting here
right now.
”

I didn’t ask what she was talking about. I couldn’t. All I could do was stare into her eyes, imploring her to forgive me.

“What is this about?” she said. “I deserve to know!”

And because I wanted to help but didn’t know how, I said, “Your husband’s dead, but his soul lives on.”

She blinked at me. “What?”

“Your son too.”

I put my cup down and stood.

“Where do you get off saying that?” she said, standing up too. “Why are you here? What’s this really about? Did Jane put you up to this?”

And just like that, as deep as I’d dug myself and as low as I’d dragged my mother down with me, I saw a light in the distance, the promised land, the perfect turnkey solution for the worry I’d caused her.

I hung my head down, shook it guiltily like I’d been found out, and said, “I’m sorry. I tried, ma’am, but I can’t lie to a nice lady like you. I’m Jane’s psychologist. She told me about your situation and I felt bad about it. I thought maybe if I visited you, I could help. Clearly I’ve made things worse.” I sighed—a sad, weary sigh. “All these years, Jane’s felt guilty about Dan’s death. She always blamed herself. Told me if she’d only treated him with more respect, maybe he wouldn’t have done it.” I sighed a very sad, very weary sigh again. “Grief does terrible things to a person.”

Mom blinked in surprise and then barked a laugh. “She said all that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“My Jane is seeing a psychologist? She wouldn’t even go to marriage counseling. I never would have imagined … not in a million years. But wait a minute—what was all that stuff about the Horners?”

I shrugged. “Jane talks about them all the time. Apparently she had a crush on Miles and never got over it.” She’d hated Miles, totally didn’t have a crush on him, but whatever. “I was caught off guard. Felt I needed to say something.”

Mom frowned. “You could have tried the truth, you know. You could have told me all this over the phone.” She seemed a little angry, though not yet upset—which for Mom was an actual distinction. Not quite in the doghouse, but maybe sleeping on the floor.

“She told me to say it was a wrong number,” I said. “That it would mean something to you.”

Mom’s mouth tightened and then she nodded, once.

I got out Scott’s wallet, took out a thousand in hundreds and handed it to her.

“Jane paid me to come out here and talk to you about your husband. Grief counseling. But I didn’t actually help, did I? I don’t feel right taking her money, and you have those gutters that need fixing, so…”

Mom pushed the money away and smiled. “It’s lovely that she cared enough to send you.” She shook her head. “Wow, she must be doing better up there than I thought. Well good. But I’m doing fine, really.” She patted me on the hand. “You keep the money. I’ll get those old gutters fixed soon, on my own, don’t you worry about it.”

“If you’re sure…”

She folded her hands over mine and closed them over the cash. I sat there with my head bowed, unable to look her in the eyes, willing myself not to cry.

I put the money away and went to the door. I opened it, crossed the threshold, and turned around.

Mom laughed and said, “You know, it’s funny. Your eyes … when you thought I was mad at you. For a moment there, I…”

“A moment what?”

“I thought … Oh, but you’ll laugh.”

“I love to laugh,” I said.

She gazed into my eyes as if searching for something.

“Yes?” I said.

Mom smiled and said, “It was very nice to meet you, Frank.”

“You too,” I said, and reached to shake her hand.

Ignoring my hand, Mom leaned over and kissed me on my left cheek.

“What was that for?” I said, blinking in surprise.

“That was for
Frank
, the psychologist,” she said. Then she kissed my other cheek. “And that’s for who you might have been.”

Then Mom stepped back and slowly shut the door.