Life Before (11 page)

“I don’t.”

“I’m sorry to say we’re booked full tonight.”

She keeps talking, but I don’t hear a word of it. Shit. Shitshitshit. What Would Jill Do?

“Excuse me? Sir?” Now she’s looking at me.

Shitshitshit. “Sorry. I missed that?”

“I would be happy to call one of our hotel partners if you’d like.”

“Yes. Sure. Yes, please.”

Half an hour later, the gist is that every available room is too expensive. If I only needed one night, no big deal, but I can’t exactly drop two hundred bucks on a bed for a single night. Because what will I do if I need a second night in Burlington? Sleep in the street?

This girl is apologetic. “It’s this jazz festival. Loads of places are booked up.” She looks at her computer. “Now, if you have a relation who can host you tonight, we have a bed available tomorrow night.”

I have literally no relations, let alone one in Burlington. What can I do for the next twenty-four hours? This is a special kind of insult—when I finally have the money to do what I want to do, that thing still isn’t available to me.

She cranes toward me, her eyebrows raised in hope. “Sound good?”

I guess. I mean, I should take that bed before someone gets it, too. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“Name?”

“Xan—Graham? Graham Bel! One ‘l’ in Bel.”

“You got the last bed for a week, mate.”

That’s okay. My call to Jill is tomorrow night. If all is well and Gary is caught, I can leave Sunday morning anyway.

“Oh, wait,” she says.

I don’t want to Oh Wait.

“We have a cancellation.”

Oh, thank god.

“For Sunday night. Will you still be in Burlington then?”

God, I hope not. “Maybe? I’m not sure. It depends?”

Check-in is not multiple choice. She says, “Let’s book you in, and you can cancel if your plans change.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries.”

In minutes, we’ve sorted the paperwork and I’m on my way again.

_______

Heading down the stairs to the great outdoors, I convince myself this is okay. Gary is a close-range weapon kind of guy: knives, skewers, his own hands. He doesn’t own a gun.

I don’t think he owns a gun.

Shit.

No, it has to be true. For Gary to kill me, he will have to get close.
Very
close. I’ll see him coming. As long as I stay out in broad daylight in the company of other people, I will be safe.

But I’ll stay inside as much as possible.

Stay in public places. Don’t let him get close.

About three thousand silent repetitions later, I push open the door and walk into the world. Burlington is very, very busy.

It’s nine o’clock. I’m very, very hungry.

Curt’s Deli, where the girl at the desk recommended I have dinner, is just three doors east of the hostel. I hope her recommendation is based on food and not mere convenience. If I’m not spending money on a bed, I might as well splurge on dinner.

The clean-cut guy behind the counter tips his chin upward. “Sup?” He’s not much older than I am. Maybe twenty-two, tops. Where would he stay tonight if he were me?

“Hi!”

“Hiya. I’m Curt. Wicked hot out there still? Heard it’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow. What do you hear?”

I hate small talk. “I need a minute.”

“Sure. Everything’s fresh. Everything’s local. Everything’s good.”

That is their shtick; it’s printed on every sign and menu in the place. Menus over and behind the counter look like chalkboards, with words meticulously painted to look like chalk. Curt’s apron is black, as is his hair. And the back of the deli case.

I can’t tell whether it’s hipster or sincere, but judging by the sandwich Curt passes over the deli case to another customer, his sandwiches are sincerely enormous. I order a Reuben with extra Thousand Island.

Curt nods. “Excellent choice. Name?”

“Graham?”

“Sure about that?”

“Graham. Yes. I’m Graham.” I’m Graham.

Curt hands over my change, which is over by nineteen bucks.

I hand back a twenty. “I think you had a twenty in your ones drawer. You owed me $3.97, but you gave me $22.97. See?” I hold out the cash toward him.

He swaps the twenty for a single. “Thanks, man.”

Curt says dinner will come to my table. Sitting alone at a table for two, I realize I’ve never gone anywhere alone before. Even
not
talking to Jill while we waited for sandwiches felt normal. Sitting alone feels ridiculous, like some part of me is missing. Digging in my backpack for something to do, I find my glasses at the very bottom, very misshapen.

Gretchen’s lip balm is still in the front pocket. I slide my finger across the tube and run my finger over my lips. Gretchen. I’m not ready to think about Gretchen, so I shove the lip balm way down in the front pocket. How can a lip balm make me feel so crummy? Jill’s bracelet is right here, too.

What Would Jill Do? A fine question. I don’t freaking know. Would she blow almost two hundred bucks on a bed for one night? If I have to stay here longer, I won’t be able to afford a second night at two hundred bucks a pop. It seems pretty likely I’ll be here at least two nights. The math just won’t work out in my favor. I have to find somewhere less legit.

Jill would make friends quickly and couch surf, but that’s easier for girls. And for Jill, specifically. She’s couch surfed a lot.

A balding, cranky old guy delivers my Reuben with extra Thousand Island, chips so thick I can tell they’re not from a bag, the biggest dill pickle I have ever seen, and a root beer. It’s the good stuff, too, in a bottle.

The dressing is tangy, and the rye is toasted. Probably a bit too much sauerkraut, but I can scrape it off with my fork. This may be the best sandwich in the history of the world.

In the history of the world, there must have been loads of people like me: wayward travelers who needed somewhere to stay. What did they do?

Curt passes me on the way to another table.

“Curt?”

“Yeah, man?”

“Any idea where a guy could find a bed for the night?”

“Hotels are mostly booked for Jazz Fest, aren’t they? Best advice I have for everyone: try the hostel. Three doors down, excellent staff, and free waffles for breakfast.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say.

Now what?

Curt’s closes at ten, and I’m the last person out the door.

“Come again,” Curt says, and I promise I’ll be back.

E
IGHTEEN

Everything is different in the dark. Shadows have fallen over everything, making Burlington really freaking creepy. Ten paces past exhausted, I feel super vulnerable. Hat pulled over my eyes, shifting my gaze every which way, I must look like a criminal. No sign of Gary, though, so there’s that.

For real, if I were Gary, I would be hunting me at night. But then, if Gary were here, he would have made his move by now, probably.

Okay, so what’s my next move?

Bed. Or sleep, at least.

For maybe an hour, I poke around the University of Vermont looking for a spot. My best bet for the night is a bench that butts right up to a brick building. It’s somewhat obscured by large trees, which cast enough shadow for me to stay hidden. Kick the duffel under the bench, tuck the backpack under my head, rub a little of Gretchen’s Labello on my lips—
good night, Gretchen
—and close my eyes.

It’s almost comfortable. Almost. And I’m so on edge, I’ll hear anyone approaching.

As it turns out, I don’t.

“You can’t sleep here.”

I startle to find a cop, wide awake and surly, standing right next to my bench. His uniform suggests he isn’t even a cop, but some second-rate security officer.

“Sorry, I—I must have dozed off.”

Holding a handle stuck into his utility belt, he’s threatening without threatening. “Well, move along, then.”

“Sure.”

It’s well after midnight. Oh my god, so tired.

“Bags up,” he says. “I’ll walk you off campus.”

“It’s okay, I can make it on my own.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get lost, son.” He guides me to a sidewalk at the edge of campus. “Have a good night, then,”

I have nothing to lose to the fake cop. “Any idea where I can sleep?”

“Try the hostel on Main.”

“They’re booked.”

Heaving a huge sigh, he recites, “Spectrum Center for Homeless Youth if you’re under twenty-two. Emergency Shelter on North Street. COTS shelters a couple of places.”

Shelters? “I’m not homeless.”

“Then go sleep at home.”

Touché. “Anything else?”

“If you’re not homeless and not in need, go to a hotel. Bunk with a friend. Call someone. But you can’t sleep on campus. Anywhere on campus.”

“Thanks.”

“Any time.”

How many times a night does he run that script?

“Thanks,” I say again.

“Any. Time.”

“Bye, then.”

I head down Main Street, in the opposite direction from the hostel. This morning’s high has vanished. The homeless shelter is not an option. I keep smelling that woman in the New York alley, and I am not her. My life has lots of gray areas, but I am not one of them.

There’s that twenty-four-hour Price Chopper store I saw on my walk from the station, but what am I going to do, shop all night? I need a bed.

I desperately, desperately need to turn on Jill’s Wi-Fi and find somewhere to go. How likely is it that Gary could track it?

I already lied to Jill about New York. I can’t also break my promise about the Wi-Fi. Plus, I’m out of the commercial district now, so if I want to break my promise, I also have to steal the Wi-Fi from someone’s house.

Lies? Sometimes okay. Broken promises, maybe. But stealing is one step further than I’m willing to go.

The knife is borrowed, not stolen. I’m not going to steal Wi-Fi.

Next to a brown fence—residential, for sure—I sit on my duffel, contemplating my options.

I just need a break. Where do normal people sleep? Normal people without a house or a friend’s house? Or money for a hotel? People who need to sleep elsewhere, where do they sleep?

I would do anything for a bed at this point. Well, not anything. A homeless shelter surely has beds, but that’s just … embarrassing. I’m only without a bed for a single night, not forever. This is temporary homelessness. Tomorrow I get the hostel for two nights.

What if Gary isn’t caught? Then what? Then where?
Am I homeless?
No. Homeless people are dirty and sickly and old. There aren’t many in Laurel, but I saw a few in New York. I am not one of them. Am I?

The inky sky holds no answers. Nor does the uneven sidewalk. A brown landmark sign points down the street directly opposite my perch. White letters read C
OSLEY
W
OODS
.

Woods sound promising. My last foray into the woods was a huge success. And even without Gretchen, how bad can it be, really? Burlington is too urban for bears, and I’ve been battling the herd of mosquitoes since my arrival. Things can’t get worse.

I look up and down Main Street, but no one else is here, let alone tailing me. The brown sign’s road is dark, its residents tucked in for the night.

A forever walk away, far at the end of the street, is the entrance to Cosley Woods. I don’t see a sign prohibiting pedestrians, but then, I can’t see much. The mere sliver of moon hardly helps. At the edge of the parking lot, I spot a huge kiosk like the ones on Laurel’s fitness circuit. I’m sure there’s valuable information here—stuff that has nothing to do with chin-ups or lunges—but I can’t make out the writing.

It’s just one large flat surface without enough contrast for reading. Maybe the kiosk includes instructions or disallows sleeping overnight, but I won’t know until morning and, frankly, I don’t care.

Behind the kiosk is another, smaller sign. A giant arrow, etched about a half-inch deep, directs me into the forest. At its mouth, the trail is quite wide. Two people could walk abreast without touching each other or the trees. Soon, it tapers to a narrower path.

If anyone noticed me heading into Cosley Woods, they might follow to investigate, so I pick up the pace.

This isn’t my thing. The canopy is so thick I can hardly see. Walking with my arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster, I stumble over something and bang into a tree. I hate nature.

The quiet is good, but the darkness is unnerving. What else is out here, roaming around?

I hate this. I hate it so hard. The moon sliver peeks through the canopy, and I use the light to get off the path and walk deep into the woods. Far enough away that morning joggers won’t see me, I drop my stuff on the ground. Bedtime. Finally. Jill’s iPod tells me it’s nearly 2 a.m. The night is half over.

Also, I’m an idiot, because iPods make great flashlights.

My sweatshirt is a little toasty, but will help keep the mosquitoes at bay. Weather that’s too hot for Curt feels just right to me. I tuck myself in the middle of some trees and lie on my back. It’s not remotely comfortable, but my body is too exhausted to care. It’s only one night. Tomorrow at two, I’ll be safe in the hostel for two whole days.

Last time I tried to catapult myself forward a few hours, the shit hit the fan. This time I’ll be patient. The future will come, either way.

How far into the future did Mom dream? How old did she think she would live to be? She accepted the beatings from Gary, but it wasn’t until she thought her life was over that she left him. How long did she expect to live?

She absolutely thought she would make it to my graduation. And to drive me to college. I might have to take another Greyhound to Tulane. Maybe Janice will drive me? She didn’t exactly ask to take on another son, though.

Mom said we had made it, but she was wrong. She didn’t make it … and I may not make it. Mom will never visit Tulane for Parents’ Weekend. I’ll never know how she would have decorated her empty nest. For months, Mom had promised to live vicariously through my college years. And now? She’s going to miss everything.

Something cracks in the distance, and I’m wide awake. It cracks again. Something is out here. Not bears, for sure not bears. Not bears. Crap. What types of animals are lurking out here?