No Right Turn (9 page)

“I gotta go, Wally.”

“Yeah, okay, but just remember—”

“I got it, Wal.”

“Good!”

We hang up.

God, life can be good sometimes—I wish I could just shut everything else out and concentrate on that.

When Mom gets home, I'm doing homework at the kitchen table.

“What's this?” Mom asks, smiling. “Those can't be schoolbooks, can they?”

“Of course not,” I kid her back, and hold the book up for her to see:
American History: Freedom and Democracy
. “This is just a little light reading, you know; they were out of nasty magazines.”

“Good boy,” Mom says. “I'm proud of you. Did you have a good day?”

I blurt out, “Becka Thorson and I went out again.”

“Oh, really,” Mom says. “Did you have fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” I answer, a little more enthusiastically than I mean to.

Mom asks, “Did she come by and pick you up?”

I say to myself, No, I drove Don's 'Vette—she loves it; it's an aphrodisiac, better than date drugs or too much beer! But I catch myself and just lie, “Yep.”

Mom says, “You can use the Honda anytime, you know?”

I say, “Thanks, Mom.”

But I say to myself, the Honda … come on … not when I can get my hands on the 'Vette!

Don recently replaced the old, broken radio that was in the Corvette. He ordered a brand-new replica from Eckler's Corvette Catalog. The new radio looks just like an original; it has
CORVETTE
in shiny letters across the top, and the dials are old-fashioned-looking. The face of the radio looks analog, like the original radios looked, but when you turn it on, the analog dial fades and a digital face appears, complete with thirty preset stations. The system is wired for a CD player, which Don hasn't installed yet, and plays cassette tapes.

For date number three I pick Becka up at her house at six. She's waiting at the front window, and before I've even pulled the 'Vette into the driveway, she runs out to greet me, followed by her two brothers.

I say, “Hi,” as she opens the passenger door and climbs in.

She leans over and kisses my cheek, and Billy, the older brother, goes, “Eeeww!”

Becka gives him a drop-dead look, which makes Brian start to tease us too. “Eeeww.” Brian laughs. “Kissy-kissy little boy-boy …”

Becka lowers the window and says, “If any sign of intelligent life comes around, please don't say anything. They'll lose all hope.”

This shuts them up long enough for us to make our escape.

“Wow!” Becka says suddenly.

“What?” I answer, looking around fast.

“You got a new radio? Or is that an old radio?”

I'm surprised she's noticed it so quickly. I explain about it being a replica. But I realize that I haven't actually tried it out yet. I could kick myself for not getting more familiar with the system before I picked her up.

“Can I turn it on?”

“Sure,” I answer, hoping she won't ask me how.

She reaches for the left-side button and turns it clockwise, the same thing I'd have done.

Suddenly Elvis Presley's voice blasts out at us from all four speakers, incredibly loud. He's singing “Hound Dog,” and the volume is deafening.

Becka laughs and turns the sound down just enough for me to hear her ask, “You like Elvis?”

I say, “What?”—stalling for time. The face of the stereo has the letters PLY and an arrow pointing to the right. This is a cassette. Why would I have an Elvis Presley tape playing in
my
Corvette if I didn't like him? Is the tape all Elvis or is there something even more horrible lurking just ahead? Neil Diamond, maybe, or the Partridge Family's greatest hits—who knows what Don likes? At a total loss for an explanation, I smile weakly, hoping for the best.

Becka gushes, “Elvis.” Then, sounding almost embarrassed, “The King.”

I can't believe that she's serious, that she actually
likes
Elvis Presley, but then she sighs and says, “Just listen to him.”

She's right; I have to admit that he
does
have an amazing voice.

Becka starts tapping her foot. “My parents were Elvis junkies when they were young, way back in the 1950s and 60s. They never grew out of it, and they still play
Elvis's Golden Hits Volume 1
, which I listened to about ten billion times growing up. I know every word to every song. God, what an astonishing waste of RAM.” She laughs. “Heck, I even learned to
dance
to this stuff!”

As we drive, I'm stunned by the weirdness of this scene: Here's this incredibly popular cheerleader-goddess, rocking to Elvis Presley music recorded more than thirty years before we were even born.

Becka does a really funny Elvis imitation. She isn't lying about knowing all the words, and she sings along to every song. Her best moments are when Elvis turns words like “I” into three syllables, “I … I … I … love you … won't you lovvve me?” She even sings along with the guitar solos, singing the notes they play, “Do-do-do-wah-wah-wah-do-do-do.”

The song “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” plays. Elvis sings like he's the most hungry, desperate, love-struck guy in the history of the world (man, I can relate), his voice full of passion and desperation. It's so over the top that even I like it, but hearing Becka sing along makes it all the more wild—it's both ridiculously funny and at the same time almost good. Becka actually has a great voice!

We've been out for almost an hour, just listening to the music and cruising. It's been really fun. I definitely think of Becka as my girlfriend now. How demented is that? She's so beautiful, and at Arlington Park we kissed and made out; she cares about me, she really does, I know she cares and I know—

She interrupts my fantasizing. “Did your parents love Elvis too?”

“I don't know.”

“Did your dad ever—”

I interrupt. “I told you, Becka, I don't talk about him.”

She looks a little hurt, but she reaches over and touches me, stroking her fingers down my face. Normally I think I'd love her doing this, but I feel really tense. I blurt out, “My dad's dead, that's all, there's no point in talking or thinking about him—what good does it do?”

Becka asks, “It was that bad, huh?”

“I don't know; I don't talk about it—okay?” Suddenly it feels like my head is going to explode.

“But Jordan, you have to talk about it someday. It's such a sad thing, it's so—”

Without planning it, I slap her hand away and scream, “Shut up!” as loud as I can. “What do you know about it?! You don't know anything!”

Becka looks shocked, but at least she stops talking.

The car is deadly quiet.

I should say something, apologize, or try to change the subject, something,
anything
, but I can't.

We're driving back toward Becka's house, and in the total silence between us, my mind races back to that day my dad died,
that day he killed himself!

I can see him sitting there, the gun still in his hand; I tried to get him out of the chair and down onto the floor, but he was so heavy that I kind of dropped him. His head made a loud thump when it hit the carpeted floor, and a squirt of blood oozed out of the bullet hole in his temple. He landed on his back, and I kneeled down next to him. My heart pounds in my chest now, just like it did that day. The stubble of Dad's sandpaper beard scratched at my lips as I tried to breathe life back into him; I remember the stench of death. I can see that horrible look on his face again, so calm and peaceful, and my tears ran down my cheeks and dropped onto his neck and shirt collar. My mind was racing: What will Mom say? What's going to happen? Why, Daddy? Why'd you do this? What have you done? What did I do? Is this my fault? And what did you mean, “bullshit,” Dad? What's bullshit? You? Me? Everybody? Everything? Daddy … Dad … Oh, God, please help me, God....

It all races back—crashing over me.

I turn into Becka's driveway, unsure of how I even drove here—it's like I'm in a trance, but I'm sweating and breathing really hard.

“I …” I start to speak, but Becka is already jumping out of the car. It's a good thing, 'cause I can't think of another word. I can't think of a single thing to say.

She slams the door of the 'Vette and runs into her house.

I think she's crying.

I've tried to phone Becka, but she won't talk to me. At first she had her brother Billy tell me that she wasn't home. I called back, but when she said hello, she sounded really cold.

“Hi,” I said. “Listen, I'm sorry about yelling at you.”

“You hit me,” she says, real softly, but not nice, just low and angry.

“No, I didn't.”

“You hit my hand.”

“I knocked it away from my face.”

“That's hitting.”

“I didn't mean it like that.... I just meant …” I can't find the right words.

She says, “Hitting is hitting.”

“Bullshit!” I say, then quickly, “Sorry, I just mean—”

She interrupts, “Stop calling me. Don't call me anymore!” Then she hangs up.

I feel totally numb, but at least it's a feeling that I recognize.

At my dad's funeral, Uncle Terry, Mom's brother, spoke about my dad. He said lots of nice things, stuff about how funny my dad was and how good a guy he was and how much he loved all of us and the Seattle Mariners. Uncle Terry said lots of great things about Dad, in spite of how Dad had killed himself, and gave Dad lots of compliments. But as Uncle Terry talked and as people all around us were crying and blowing their noses and trying to avoid looking over at Mom and me, I started to feel more and more numb, like novocaine was pumping through my whole body.

I feel that again now, thinking about Becka.

I'm trying to explain to Don about what happened. “She said not to call her.”

“Don't, then,” Don says.

“Not at all?” I ask.

He stops looking at the oil dipstick he's checking and glances over at me. “Which part of ‘don't call' didn't you get?”

I feel my ears turn red with anger.

Don notices and quickly adds, “Shit, Jordan, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be mean. But people have to get over stuff in their own ways—and a real friend accepts that and gives a person space. After all, it sounds like you got mad at her for not giving you space, right? Now it's your turn.”

I nod. What he says makes sense; I mean of course it makes sense. Still, I'd hoped that Don would say, “Call her anyway.”

He asks, “This girl means a lot to you, right? I mean, you
do
care about her, don't you?”

I nod again. I haven't told Don what Becka and I fought about; I haven't told him what I did, or how horrible it was for me to think about my dad again. I haven't told
anybody
that. But my feelings remind me of how it felt after Dad died, that weird, horrible numbness. I don't want to go back there again. I don't know what to do.

Don interrupts my thoughts. “Do what she asks, Jordan; don't call her. She knows your phone number, and she'll call you when she's ready.”

I say, “Okay.”

But I don't mention that I feel like I felt in those days after I lost my dad, during the worst time of my whole life. I don't mention that I'd almost rather die myself than feel this numb again!

I don't tell Wally what Becka and I fought about either—he wouldn't understand it anyway.

But his brilliant suggestions are typically amazing, a little less than helpful.

He asks, “So she's super-vulnerable right now?”

“I guess.”

“She must be all broken up.”

“Yeah, maybe a little bit.”

Without missing a beat, Wally says, “Be sure and take a condom along to go comfort her.”

“What?”

“You know, just in case.”

“Jesus, Wal, you're an ass. I'm not sure when or even
if
I'll ever hear from her again.”

“All the more reason to be prepared,” Wally insists. “Make-up sex, buddy; this might be your best and last chance.”

“Wally, does the phrase ‘sociopathic dickhead' have any meaning to you?”

He laughs. “Hey, I'm not the guy who lied his head off to the love of his life while stealing his mom's boyfriend's car.”

One of Wally's most annoying traits is his tendency to sometimes be right.

Truthfully, Mom is the most helpful.