Out (22 page)

“Are you
hungry?”

“No.” I don’t
want to stop for any reason. If we stop, it’ll take longer to get there, and it
might throw off the plan. Of course, they’re not coming till midnight. Maybe
eating would be a good idea. That could minimize the time I have alone with
him. “Actually, yeah. Yeah, I think I am kind of hungry. How about you?”

He smiles,
excited, I guess, that I want to do something as regular as eat food with him. “Sure.
See any place good to eat around here?”

A green neon
sign, blurred in the rivulets running down the windows, glows in the distance.
I think it’s a little bar, mostly for hunters. I don’t remember anything else
being between here and the cabins, so it’s that place or no place. “Yeah, let’s
go there,” I say, pointing toward the sign.

He squints at
the green blur. “Busby Lake Tavern?” He arches his eyebrows. “You think they
have food?”

“Or something
like it,” I joke.

We both laugh.
Makes it a little less awkward.

The Busby Lake
Tavern is a small place crouched on the edge of a parking lot. Presumably,
there’s a lake somewhere nearby, but you’d never know it in this weather.
McFarland parks the car—I grab the backpack at my feet and we both sprint to
the door, covering our heads with our jackets to avoid a drenching.

Inside, it’s old
wood and concrete floors, just your typical biker-burly-lumberjack bar. Mostly
men occupy the bar stools, and there are a few picnic-type tables where groups
of friends joke loudly over pitchers of beer, trying to outshout the jukebox.
McFarland shakes off the rain, heads for a vacant bar table with two swivel
chairs, and I follow. I put the backpack on the floor, put my foot on it.
Nobody’s taking it.

The noise lets
us be quiet, which suits me fine. He keeps looking at the bar as if he could
magically summon a waiter, but the place is definitely not a hub of customer
service. “I can go over and order some food,” he offers with a question in his
voice. What, does he want me to do it? Hell no.

“Sure. I’ll
have whatever. Cheeseburger, nachos, whatever bar food they have. Pretzels,
even.” I’m an easy date.

He nods and
gives me a pale smile. Future bishops don’t hang in cheapo hunter bars, I
guess. I bet he orders wine.

While I’m
waiting, I scope the room. A couple of guys check me out—I wonder if they think
he’s my dad? Ugh.

One in
particular keeps actually staring at me. I look away, concentrating on the
table.

“Hey.”

I jump. The guy
who was staring is now standing at my elbow.

“Uh…hi.” I spot
McFarland’s back at the bar; looks like he’s still waiting patiently for
someone to quit ignoring him. I’m hoping the stranger will disappear, but I can
feel him standing right there. Okay. I turn toward him.

Thick
overgrowth of unshaven beard, black-rimmed sunglasses. Not so suave. There’s
something kind of familiar about him, but I can’t think of what it is. “Can I
help you?”

“Nope.” He
perches on the other swivel chair, comfortable as a cat on a windowsill. He
tilts a beer bottle at me in salute, then takes a swig. “Just thought I’d
introduce myself.” He leans forward, pushes the glasses down his face slightly,
and peers at me over the
top.Nervous
prickles start
working up my back, down my arms. I check on McFarland; he’s moved, hoping for
better service at the far end of the bar, I guess.

 
“Yeah, I’m here with a friend…”

“I know all
about your friend.” He leans even closer and touches the back of my hand, then
taps my yarn-covered bracelet. “I know what’s under there,” he says in a
sing-song voice.

My breathing
stops; sounds fade. Is this what fainting feels like? A dark, narrowing tunnel
squeezing vision down to an invisible pinpoint? I’m still trying to fake it,
though; my conscious mind, at least, hasn’t lost it. “I don’t know what you
mean.” I yank my hand back as if it’s been burnt.

“Relax.” He
drains the last of his beer, sets the bottle on the table. “I’m on your side.”

“My side?”
Still playing dumb. I’m hoping he just gets bored and goes away. How does he
know about the bracelet?

He glances over
his shoulder at the bar. “Looks like your buddy got someone to take your order,
so I’ll get going. Just wanted to say hi, Chris. I’m Matt.” He leans in even
closer, pulls the sunglasses to the tip of his nose, and whispers, “from
Canada.”

I seriously
think I’m going to throw up, wet my pants, or pass out. Now I remember. He’s
the kid who was in the magazine Jana gave me, the kid who was California’s
rebel. “Are you M.A.?” I whisper back.

He nods, and
stands up as if stretching. “
Gotta
go. We’ll be
seeing you soon.” He ambles away as if we just traded baseball stats or
something. I don’t watch him. I’m busy trying to slow down my racing heart.

“Who was that?”
McFarland plants himself in the swivel chair Matt just sat in. He sounds
slightly jealous. “You picking up guys?”

 
“No, no,” I stammer. “I don’t know who he is.
Don’t worry about it. I told him to get lost.” Oh, crap. He’s scanning the
room, looking for the guy. I put my hand on McFarland’s. “Jim, it’s okay.”

That gets his
attention, as I knew it would. “You called me Jim!” He grins, ridiculously
pleased with this apparent sign of affection. Again, I feel kind of bad for
him. I think he really kind of likes me.

I pull my hand
back and smile as genuinely as I can. “Hey, I’m
gonna
hit the bathroom. Be back in a minute.” I grab the pack.

“You can leave
that here,” he says, surprised. “I’ll be sure and watch it.”

I just grin and
don’t try to explain.

“Food should be
here pretty soon,” he says warmly as I walk away.

The restroom is
down a dimly lit hallway, behind a wooden door with a Water Closet sign on it. I
push in the door and lock it with a rusty slide lock, lean against it as if
it’s keeping me upright. A fluorescent bug light zaps in the corner, smiting
invisible gnats. After I get my breathing under control, I sit on the toilet,
head between my knees, backpack at my feet. The wallet’s there. I could just
run away, use the map, forget about the whole thing.
 

Someone knocks.
“Chris?” It’s McFarland. How long have I been in here?

“Yeah. I’m
fine.”

“Oh.” His voice
on the other side of the door sounds relieved, but slightly panicky. Maybe he
thought I was going to run away with the baseball-cap guy. “Food’s here.”

“Be right
there.” I stand up, turn on the scratched-up faucet, watch cold water cascade
down the rust-rimmed drain. “Just washing up.”

“Okay.” I
listen to see if he’s walked away, but all I can hear is the thumping bass of a
country song bleeding through the walls. In the chipped mirror, I look pale as
death, still-wet hair sticking up at weird angles. I smooth it down, splash
some water on my face, and look for a paper towel. All they have is that
old-fashioned white-cloth thing with a green border stripe hanging from an
ancient dispenser. I use my shirt.

Back in the
bar, there’s no sign of Matt. What was he doing here? I guess he must be in on the…activity.
Jesus, why did he have to say anything? I’m shaking.

I nudge my way
through knots of pool players and beer drinkers and get back to the table,
where McFarland nibbles on a French fry. Two big, greasy-looking burgers perch
on paper plates.

I sit,
reposition the backpack, and then grab the burger, take a bite, feel nauseous.
Not sure I’d trust the hygiene in the kitchen here. “How’s your food?” I ask,
trying to calm my queasy stomach.

He’s chewing a
huge mouthful of burger. “Good,” he manages to say. I pick up a fry and bite it
in half. Tastes like freezer burn.

We finish the
food in silence.

Back in the
car, I stare out the window as we continue along the rain-soaked road. “Mind if
I turn on the radio?” I ask. It’d be better than this silence, and I don’t
really want to talk. The more we talk, the worse I feel about…everything.

“Sure.” He
fumbles with the controls. “You do it. I can’t figure it out and drive at the
same time.”

I push the
power button, get a bunch of static, turn a dial until I get something like
music. It’s classical, but better than nothing. McFarland reaches over and
turns it off.

 
“Hey,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you
doing this?” He’s still staring ahead at the road, eyes on the two white beams
of the headlights.

“Why am I going
with you?”

“Yes.”

“What do you
mean?” I fidget with my bracelet.

“I mean, why
are you doing this? To please your father? To get into a good school? I am not
under any illusion that it’s because of me.” He shoots me a sidelong glance.

 
I really can’t lie about this, not like I
should. Better to stick with a partial truth. “Honestly, I wanted to get away
from home.”

I see his
shoulders relax. “Oh. Why is that?”

Truth,
truth…much better at hiding lies than flat-out lies themselves. “Warren and David
are just…really pushing me to decide what to do with my life, and I just don’t
know what that is yet. I can’t know until I know. Does that make any sense?”

“Of course.”
The doubt has gone away, at least for now. “It’s a big decision, what you want
to do after high school. Of course, you do still have the rest of your senior
year to think about it.
 
Break’s over in
a week, is that right?”

“Yeah. I’m so
tired of school.” Again, true. Especially now. I haven’t even thought about it
since the whole Carmen thing surfaced. Seems like a different life.
 
“You have to make all these decisions before
you’re even out of school, while you’re in school. I just don’t feel like I’m
handling it all very well.”

“Seems like you
handle it just fine.” He nods to something up ahead. “There’s a sign. Indian
Lake, six miles. Almost there!”

Yeah. Almost
there. I’m glad I didn’t eat much. My stomach hurts.

We stop at the
check-in, a log cabin lodge framed by fir trees. The scent of burnt firewood
clings to everything. Deer Creek. We have to get Deer Creek cabin. I hope
whoever is supposed to know that is working. I hope nothing goes wrong.

“Don’t be so
nervous,” McFarland says, hugging me around the shoulders. He plucks at the
strap of the pack. “Is this like your security blanket or something? You don’t
need to worry.” We clomp up the split-log stairs and go into the office. It’s
warm, with a crackling fire blazing away in a big stone hearth.

A girl wearing
a bright red hunter’s hat sits behind the counter reading a magazine. “Hey,”
she says without looking up. “Welcome to Indian Lake. Name?”

“Jim McFarland.”
He glances at me, and smiles. “Plus one.”

The girl arches
an eyebrow, very subtly, then pores over a big register book. “Ah. Here we go.
Deer Creek Cabin.” She swivels in her squeaky office chair, grabs a key, and
hands it across. “Credit card?”

McFarland digs
his wallet out of his pants pocket, produces the card, and waits while she runs
it. “This place is great,” he says excitedly. “Quiet. California is never quiet.
I mean, if you go out into the countryside, but you know, where I live, it’s
always freeway noise, people, pets, traffic.” Now he seems nervous.

“Here you are,
Mr. McFarland.” She pushes a map onto the counter, and points with a red pen. “This
is where we are—” she circles something “—and this is where you’re going.” She
puts a red X on a little building. “Take the access road to the right as you’re
looking out from the porch. Deer Creek is the last cabin. Pretty dark out
there, so here’s a flashlight.” She plunks a heavy black
Maglite
on the counter. That might come in handy later. I wonder if she’s part of this
too?
 

McFarland
scoops up the key and flashlight, and grins at me. “After you,” he says,
gesturing toward the door. We clump down the stairs, dodge the drizzle, get
back in the car, and start down the road.

The closer we
get to Deer Creek the worse I feel. It doesn’t help that it’s pitch black and
tree branches are waving like living demons from a horror movie, or that we
keep hitting huge ruts in the dirt road, or...

 
“Pull over,” I manage to blurt out before my
dinner comes up.

Even though the
car’s still moving, I throw open the door.
 
He brakes as I puke my guts out, steady rain drumming on my skull.

“Oh, God,
Chris. Are you alright?” He’s patting my back. “Let it all out. Rotten biker
bar.”

I don’t think
the food is causing my gut cramps, but I don’t tell him that.

When I think
I’m done, I sit up. He grabs a roll of paper towels from the back seat, hands
me a wad, and I wipe my hair and face. “I’m okay,” I say weakly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I slam
the door. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

I feel him
watching me, but I don’t look at him. He puts the car into drive, pulls forward
slowly. “I’ll watch the ruts,” he offers. I keep my eyes glued to the backpack
at my feet.

After driving
for about ten minutes, the road ends, and we’re at Deer Creek. The cabin’s
dark, so he flicks the flashlight on. “Stay here. I’ll unlock the door and get
the lights on.” I watch through the curtain of rain as he dashes up the steps.
I check on the red wallet: still there.

A flickering
lamp illuminates from inside. In the doorway, McFarland waves for me to come
in.

No going back
now.

After fifteen
minutes in the small, rustic bathroom, I finally come out. McFarland sits on
the overstuffed green sofa, staring at a semi-successful blaze he’s made in the
fireplace. “Hey. How’re you feeling?” He glances at me, grinning. “Sorry about
that.”