Going Nowhere Faster (19 page)
Sheriff Conner shoved Prarash into the backseat, not delivering the usual speech about “watch your head,” and Prarash slammed into the back with a crunch. Sheriff Conner got in the front and then leaned out the window. “Give my apologies to Roberto. Just part of the job, you know.”
The cruiser sped away with the lights flashing, tearing another trail through the arugula.
“So much for this year’s harvest,” my mother said.
“There’s always next year,” my father consoled. “That’s the amazing thing about nature. Stuff just keeps growing.”
Olivia had fallen asleep in my arms. My father took her and began walking back to the house. Chopper trotted behind, licking at her dangling fingers. Miles gave a salute and said he was going to go home and sleep for about ten years. When we were alone, I looked at my mother.
“You were
about
to make him leave? Why did you even let it go this long?”
My mother stared at her feet. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to let Frederick know he needed to move on for quite some time, but I guess I got lulled into overlooking some things.”
“What things?”
“Just about all of them.” She sighed. “Mostly, I suppose, I let it go because he’s the only one who ever really listens to me.”
I took her by the hand and we started walking back toward the house. “You know something, Mom? If there is one single thing in the world I absolutely and completely understand, that’s definitely it.”
“Well, that’s good, I suppose.”
We stepped over a row of zucchini together.
“So, I’m going to California with Miles next week.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“And?”
She held up my hand and kissed it and sighed. “Be careful driving.”
I laughed. “You know, I guess I could check Berkeley out when I get there. No promises, but, since I’ll be there anyway . . .”
“Okay, Stanley,” she said.
And it was. Okay.
A RESERVOIR of nostalgia for a town about to be left to the DOGS
My parents held a going-away party for Miles and me behind Smith’s Natural, which was now closed. Permanently. My mother made a huge pot of organic chili that no one went anywhere near, mostly because it smelled almost exactly like a combination of old socks and slightly newer socks. There were picnic tables and a barbecue pit and horseshoes and a radio playing mariachi music. Mrs. Dos and Mrs. Tres were cooking an enormous spread, tamales, roast pork, flautas, ceviche,
pollo asado,
and huge plates of chilies and avocado. Their kids tore around, screaming at one another in Spanish. My father stood under an almond tree drinking a beer (drinking a beer?). My mother stirred her chili and talked with Mrs. Uno about turning Smith’s Natural into a taqueria.
I walked across the lettuce patch, smiling at Olivia and Dos’s son, who were holding hands on the spot where I’d dug up and then fully buried my poor bike. We’d had a little ceremony for it. Miles had read a few words (Nirvana lyrics) and then Olivia had rung a handlebar bell twenty-one times. Next to her, Keith was eating slices of a big white frosted cake he’d brought himself. He had a slice in each hand and was alternating between them.
“Yeah, they arrested the bastard,” he said, mustache covered in frosting. Then he looked down at Olivia. “Sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I know what it means. I know
who
it means, too.”
“Quién?” said Dos’s son. “Who?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Olivia said.
“They found traces of organic dirt in our carpet. Found it all over his tent, too,” Keith explained.
“Yurt,” Olivia said.
“When they raided the tent, they found some pretty interesting stuff. Like, for instance, the entire Happy Video porno collection.” Keith looked at Olivia again and covered her ears. “Sorry, honey.”
“S’okay,” she said. “Yurt.”
“They also found a bunch of spray-painted dolls.” Keith took a huge bite of cake. Then he said “Weird, huh?” except his mouth was so full of food, it sounded like “Mrouweref, Fnurt?”
“What about my shift?” I asked. “Have you found someone to cover it?”
Keith smiled. “Yeah, Officer Dave is going to take over.”
“Officer Dave?”
I said. “No way.”
“Way,” Keith said, finishing both his slices and then picking up two more. “Turns out he hates being a cop. He’s a movie buff. Big Arnold fan. He quit the force a week ago. Starts training Monday.”
“Is he doing the books now, too?”
Keith frowned, licking his fingers. “Doing the books is my job, Stan.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said.
“Hey, Stan!” Keith yelled. “Stallone movies!”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not today.”
“C’mon!” he yelled again, getting excited. “One last time! Check this out, everybody! Reverse alphabetical!”
I sighed and began a monotone,
“Victory. Tango & Cash. Staying Alive. Rocky V. Rocky IV . . .”
“Well, hell-o,” I heard my mother saying. She was shaking hands with Dr. Felder. When she turned, he winced, looking down at his red fingers. I walked over to where he stood under an almond tree, sipping from a Dixie cup of milk. He wore khaki shorts and a yellow sweater tied around his shoulders.
“Hey, Doc,” I said. “Sporty outfit.”
He looked down, as if surprised to see himself wearing sandals, then wiggled his toes.
“I got a gift certificate,” he explained. “For Christmas.”
“Christmas was a long time ago,” I said.
“Yeah,” Dr. Felder agreed, sipping milk. “I guess I haven’t had a lot of time for stuff like shopping.”
“Too busy fixing the heads of upset teendom, huh?”
Dr. Felder smirked, but not much. “Listen, I thought a lot about what you said in my office, Stan, and I’m sorry for questioning whether you might have broken into the store.”
“To be honest, Doc? You should be.”
He adjusted his sweater. “You’re right. It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. The thing is, I’ve been treating Prarash for years. I don’t know how it could have taken this long to start connecting the dots. And then, when I finally did, I really should have called the police. Like, immediately.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, incredulous. “You
see
Prarash?”
Dr. Felder nodded. “Oh, yes. One of my most difficult patients. He needs quite a bit of help. Hopefully he’ll get some in prison.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Hopefully, he’ll get a whole lot of something in prison.”
Olivia came tearing past us, followed by Dos’s son. They ran laughing behind a pile of yams.
“So, in the meantime,” Dr. Felder said, “I’ve decided to give up on therapy for a while.”
“Give up?”
Dr. Felder looked pained. His face turned red and he seemed to be sweating. I’d never seen him sweat before.
“Well, maybe not so much give up. More like take a break.”
I didn’t say anything, allowing him to organize his thoughts.
“I guess this whole incident has made me realize I’ve been coloring by the numbers, you know? Taking things for granted. Mostly, not listening. I mean
really
listening.”
“Kiss of death for a therapist,” I said.
He laughed. “Don’t I know it. So, actually, I’m going to Italy for a couple of months. See some art. And old buildings.”
“Good for you, Doc,” I said.
“Plus, I will be receiving my own treatment. From a renowned Italian psychotherapist.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “Time to check out the other end of the couch, huh?”
“Exactly.”
He smiled and toasted me with his milk. I smiled and toasted him with my cherry Coke.
“Can I ask you one last thing?”
“Sure.”
“What’s your first name?”
Dr. Felder’s smile went away. He looked off into the fields for a long time, finally nodding as if he’d come to terms with something.
“Boris.”
“Boris?”
I said, doing a spit-take with the Coke. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head, wiping cola off his shorts. “No, actually I’m not. It’s been a source of . . . embarrassment for quite some time.”
“Boris Felder,” I said. “Man, that’s almost worse than Stan Smith.”
“It almost is,” Boris agreed, and then walked over to the picnic table to freshen his milk.
Toward the end of lunch, Miles stood up from his seat at the picnic table and announced in a voice two octaves below his normal one, “We Must Go Now.”
Everyone shook their heads, knowing he was right, except Keith, who grabbed the taco platter and said, “I’m not finished.”
“Sprout-water diet,” I told him.
“No chance,” he said, then picked up a beef taco and gave it a big kiss.
Miles backed the van up in front of the barn and we loaded the last of our stuff, mostly CDs and leftover food. Everyone gathered around, my father shaking Miles’s hand, and then mine. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and handed me five hundred-dollar bills.
“Drive safe, okay?”
Keith got me a bear hug that smelled like cake and Keith, which was not the greatest combination, then handed me five one-dollar bills. “Go ahead and drive reckless. What can it hurt?”
My mother gave Miles directions to the highway.
“I know the way to the highway, Mrs. Smith,” Miles said.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she told me, then kissed me in the exact same spot my father had.
“Me, too,” I said, then hugged Dos and Mrs. Dos and the kids. I thought there was a chance Olivia wouldn’t cry, but that chance came and went.
“Can’t I come?”
“Sorry, Peanut.”
“Can’t you not go?”
FIVE REASONS NOT TO GO:
1. Olivia
2. Olivia
3. Olivia
4. Olivia and Chopper
5. Olivia
“I’ll be back soon,” I said. “Then we can go and feed the ducks.”
She sniffled and shook her head, and my mother took her by the hand and led her away. Chopper woofed and howled and peed on the tires. Miles and I climbed into the van and started up the driveway, everyone waving. At least until the van stalled. My father grabbed a wrench and ran toward us, but Miles got it restarted, with an enormous backfire, and we pulled past Smith’s Soon to Be Natural Taqueria with a lurch, heading toward the highway.
“Wait, I’m lost,” Miles said, pretending to turn the wheel. “Should we go back and ask directions?”
“Shut up,” I said.
“Wait, I’m hungry,” he said, pretending to turn the wheel in the opposite direction. “Should we go back for more tacos?”
“Just drive,” I said.
“So we’re going? Definitely?”
“Definitely,” I said.
“Good.” Miles nodded, almost running over the mailbox. “Just making sure.”
OUT not entirely OF THE very recent PAST
We made it about half a mile past the
YOU ARE NOW LEAVING MILLVILLE, HAVE A GOOD TRIP!
sign, when a red light went on in the dashboard. Miles flicked it a couple of times with his finger, but it stayed lit. I pushed the
LIFT OFF
button, but nothing happened.
“We need some oil,” Miles said. “I can’t believe your father didn’t top it off. How inconsiderate.”
I looked at Miles like he was crazy, until he laughed. “Duh? Sandler? I’m kidding?”
“There’s some fast food ahead,” I said, pointing to an exit sign that had a spoon on it. “We can fill up there.”
Miles started singing, “Fast food a-head, fast food be-hind, oh, we will never go-a hung-ry.”
“You have a terrible voice,” I said.
“I have a
great
voice,” he said, aiming us off the highway and into the parking lot of a Super Burger Barn.
“What’s the difference between a Burger Barn and a Super Burger Barn?” I asked.
Miles shrugged. “About twelve bucks in neon?”
I walked in, past a huge plastic Cabbage Cow. Cabbage Cow was Burger Barn’s mascot and spokesman. He wore a big apron and a chef’s hat and handed candy to children at the end of a purple spatula. I could never understand why big smiley Cabbage Cow was so happy, given that most of his family had probably ended up between the seeded buns of a Triple Bac-O Burger. Shouldn’t Cabbage Cow be in mourning? Shouldn’t he have a black armband around his hoof? A black hoofband around his arm?
“Can I help you?” the counter guy asked.
“Yeah, can I talk to the manager?”
He looked scared. “Did I do something wrong? I greeted you, right? I was friendly, right?”
“No,” I said, “you were great. You were perfect. This is about something completely different.”
He looked relieved. He had a big button on his shirt with a picture of Cabbage Cow that said
ASK ME ABOUT OPPORTUNITIES IN FRANCHISING!
“The manager’s not here right now. The assistant manager is, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Umm . . . I dunno if talking to him is such a good idea. . . .”
“Why not?”
He looked down at the gleaming metallic counter. He looked up at the menu board. He chewed his bottom lip. He pulled at his hairnet and his bow tie and his hat. I felt sorry for him. “Okay,” he finally said, and went into the back office. I could hear voices, and then a man walked out in a polyester outfit. It was Chad Chilton.
“Can I help you?”
The goatee was gone and he wore a tie and his hair was cut short, but it was definitely him. The counter guy was right. It
was
a bad idea. My entire body froze.
“Chad Chilton,” I said.
He squinted, looking at me. “Yeah? Do I know you?”
‘Umm . . . no . . . ,” I said. “Definitely not.”
“Okay, so? Andy here says there’s a problem.”
“No, no problem. . . . It’s just . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever heard of bio-diesel?”
Miles pulled the van around back, by the kitchen door, and began unspooling the hose.
“Nice ride,” Chad Chilton said, looking admiringly at the VW’s spoiler. “Did you build this crazy thing?”
I wanted to say yes, but didn’t. That would have been a lie. Not an exaggeration, a flat lie. I’d resolved that by the time we got to California, I was going to be different.
“Um, no. My father’s a sort of inventor guy.”