Life Before (12 page)

Not Gary. Probably not Gary. Just a rabbit or something. Something nocturnal. A raccoon, maybe. Maybe not.

Clutching the knife, I open and close it several times. Sleeping with an open knife is a terrible idea, but if I need it, I want to know how to use it.

Open. Close. Open. Close
.

No more creature noises.

Open. Close. Open. Close
.

I close my eyes again. I’ll be okay tonight, but what about tomorrow? I feel too vulnerable out in the open. I need to be inside, back against the wall, so I can maintain constant vigilance, on high alert, until the hostel opens. Somewhere free.

I’ll figure it out in the morning. I’ll make it be okay.

Sometime between sleep and sunrise, the rain starts. In minutes, my stuff is muddy and I’m soaked.

I fashion a face tent out of my backpack and rain jacket and try to find sleep again in the cold, wet darkness. Nature makes a lot of noise. I’ll never fall asleep out here.

_______

“Xander!”

Sun up. I am completely disoriented. Voice yells my name again and I sprint in the other direction before I even know I’m standing. I open the knife while I’m running. Thank god I practiced.

Louder, Voice calls again. I don’t recognize it, but anyone calling my name in Burlington is bad news. And Voice is angry, impatient.

I sprint through trees in our reverse game of Marco Polo. My foot catches the bank of a stream and I’m flat on my belly. I right myself and take inventory as I run.

Nothing broken.

Just keep breathing.

Voice screams, “You can’t run forever, Xander!”

I stumble over the stream twice more. I’m running in circles! Haven’t seen the path. Haven’t found the edge of the forest.

A dog barks, frantic.

Would they send dogs after me? Is it the police?

I am the dog, turning in circles between Voice and the barking. They’re closing in on me.

But who are they?

I run again, away from Voice, who knows my name. Through the damned stream this time, soaking my Chucks, which make me even slower.

The dog, a stupid-happy golden who just wants love, finds me first. He licks my hand and rolls over in case I’m interested in rubbing his belly.

“No time for that, buddy.” I run from Voice. The dog follows. We’re running and running through the trees.

And then we’re not. Turns out the edge is on a cul-de-sac. I hide the knife behind my back.

Some guy is watering his garden the morning after a downpour. Children play with Nerf bows and arrows. Running will make all these people suspicious.

Not running could kill me.

The dog licks my hand. I squat to pet him while I think of my next move. The moronic gardener waves timidly and I wave back.
No big deal. I’m just a guy, hanging out with my dog. Casually walking through the woods.

Voice doesn’t call again.

The dog’s collar jingles when I scratch behind his ears. His tag is an enormous silver bone. One side reads, “If found …” and information about his owners. The other side is etched with his name: Sanders.

It all comes together.

What a stupid name for a dog.

His human yells again, “Sanders!”

“You’d better run,” I tell him, and he bolts back through the trees.

N
INETEEN

It’s almost eleven when I make my way out of the woods with all my crap. I’m starving.

At the trailhead, the kiosk tells me everything I need to know: no camping, no sleeping, stay on the trails. Also, leave no trace, and I actually abided that one since I can’t afford to lose what little I have with me.

I’m so grateful to have a bed tonight. And a shower. My teeth feel like I’ve swallowed a cat, and the night’s rain weighs down my bags.

After another Reuben from Curt’s Deli, I beeline it to the Free Library, where I can sit and read in a corner for two whole hours before checking in at the hostel.

Though I’m traveling light, lugging everything everywhere is a pain. I wish I could leave my wet, stinky duffel outside the library door, but that would be even more suspicious than the guy who brushes his teeth in the library bathrooms.

Yeah, I do it. Slimy teeth are gross. And though I haven’t showered in days, clean teeth make me feel human. Human-like, at least. I’m starting to smell less than human. Or
very
human, depending on how you look at it.

My clean teeth and I settle into a comfortable chair for the morning. The nonfiction section is wanting, but
The History of Science
has been on my list for months. Based on the bits I catch between regular surveillance of the area, it’s downright fascinating.

Here’s irony: it’s called the Free Library, but you’re only free to check out books if you have a Burlington address. At ten to two, I reshelve my book before hightailing it to the hostel.

The H
OS
¯
EL
. The stairs are brighter this afternoon. The girl—the same girl—is at the desk, and more attentive than yesterday. She reads aloud off my fake. “Graham Bel of Georgia. I haven’t visited Georgia yet. How do you find it?”

Um … “Hotter than here?” I’m an idiot. Of course Georgia is hotter than Vermont. Desperate for nuggets about Georgia, my obsession with travel becomes an asset.

“American Stonehenge is in Georgia! And Savannah, which is allegedly the least friendly city in the whole country. And peaches! Peaches, peaches, peaches. Hey, you know, Georgia was one of the original thirteen colonies, so even though they were admitted to the union just three years before Vermont, Georgia has had it together fifty years longer than Vermont. So, one could say mine is a more American state than yours.”

I’m a terrible liar. Just terrible. And pompous.

She isn’t fazed. “I’m Welsh. My name is Mia, by the way.”

Mia offers an information packet and tells me to vacate by 11 a.m. for the cleaning crew’s mandatory checkout. “You can check back in tomorrow at two.”

I seriously could have used some recon before this trip. Mandatory checkout? For three hours, thrust back into the world in plain site of … anyone?

Still, I have a place to breathe. Thanking Mia, I walk toward the dorm at the back of the building. The mixed dorm is big and bright with six empty beds. I can’t tell whether this is better or worse than the dingy dorm room I expected.

I choose the bed closest to the window and dig through my bag for toiletries. All my clothes smell a little musty. I’ve been trying to separate the clean and dirty clothes but, well, I’m not trying that hard.

After a long, hot shower, I lie on my cot and settle into Jill’s iPod. I’m not using the hostel’s free Wi-Fi, but I’m thinking about it. Thinking about what everyone else is doing, and how much email they’ve sent me.

But I promised Jill I wouldn’t, and it’s her iPod, so I don’t.

She has a million new games on here, including some college-prep educational stuff. Definitely no. The mushroom icon for “Save Ur Ash” is cool, but it turns out to be a nuclear apocalypse survival game. Dumb. On my first try, I see the bright flash of the mushroom cloud and I’m toast. On my second try, I miss the flash but can’t find my way out of the street where I was standing when the bomb dropped. Ash falls and I’m radioactive.

Apparently, if you’re not immediately dead, you have to run as far as possible to escape the impending ash shower. When I see the flash on my third try, I actually blurt out, “Screw you!”

But I don’t stop playing. I let the mind-numbing app suck me in because, in the safety of the hostel, a numb mind is absolutely welcome.

T
WENTY

By 7:10, I’m still alone, still haven’t won the stupid game, and still hungry. I swing by Curt’s for another sandwich before my scheduled call with Jill.

Curt narrows his eyes and points at me. “Graham. Extra dressing, right?”

I fork over my cash, bemused that he remembered me. Maybe he knows everyone in here. One old lady in slippers and a gnarled, curly wig is literally licking her plate clean. No one pays her any attention. It’s normal life.

“Hey, Curt, do you know where I can find a pay phone?”

“No idea. Haven’t seen one in years.”

Crap.

He surveys the other customers, who shrug and shake their heads.

My internal panic alarm pings. “I need to make a phone call in ten minutes.”

“Try mine.” Curt unlocks it and hands me an open browser. A quick Google search finds hundreds of phones in Burlington, but their addresses mean nothing to me. I’m on Main Street and the library’s on College, but I don’t know anything else.

I shine the phone in Curt’s direction. “Which one of these is closest?”

“Just use my phone, man.”

Oh. That makes sense.

Curt studies the list in his browser. “I mean, if you want privacy, probably … probably this one on Union is closest.”

I don’t know what I want. The security of staying right here sounds good, but I’m expecting some heavy shit on this particular call. Privacy trumps security today.

“I’ll try Union Street. Thanks, man. See you tomorrow.”

Even a sprint gets me to the phone five minutes late. I dial the ever-important
*
67 first.

It rings thirteen times before I hang up.

Jill has forgotten. My oldest friend, my single confidante, my only lifeline has forgotten our date.

Desperate for news, I can’t very well order
The Vindicator
way up here, not that it covers intimate details of our tiny town anyway. Maybe I could do some Internet searches without naming my town or my father … and still find out whether I can go home.

What if I can never go home?

Two minutes later, I try again. Seventeen rings with no answer.

Maybe she’s sick. Maybe Gary got to her. No. She’s on a date, more likely.
Goddammit, Jill! This is important!

At exactly 7:40, it doesn’t even ring once before Jill says, “Um. Hi?”

“Oh, thank god.” Knowing Jill is there relaxes me slightly. Leaning against the brick wall, phone cord stretched taut, I can see the whole street while we talk.

“I can’t believe this actually worked,” she says. “How are you?”

“M’okay. Yeah, fine. Sorry I’m late. You first. How’s Dale Jail?”

“Ha. Ha.” Oh, her sarcasm. It’s a nice taste of home. “It’s getting better, actually. He let me go to the mall with Mom tonight.”

“Good for you. What’s happening?”

“Well, everything and nothing. My dad confiscated my computer and dug through the search history. He knows you’re in New York.”

He knows nothing.

“Dad said he can’t really do anything about it, though. It’s not like he can send the NYPD hunting all over the city, you know? He’s pretty pissed at you. He’s supremely pissed at me, but he’ll get over it. I think he’s more worried about you than anything else.”

“But I’m not in trouble?”

Jill snorts. “No, you’re not in trouble, Xander. As you said, you’re not a deviant or a criminal. People are asking about you, though. I haven’t said a word. Everyone is looking for Gary, but there’s no sign of him, either.”

Some invisible force sucks the air from my lungs. I really thought this would be over if I just gave Gary enough space to surface.

“Xander?”

“Yeah?”

She’s quiet for too long. “We should maybe end the ruse, Xander. Folks who don’t know better are saying things—awful things—about you.”

“Like what?”

“You don’t want to know.”

She’s probably right, but our conversation will deflate if I admit that. “Jill, I want to know everything. Spill.”

“Well, some say you killed your mother. And some say you’re dead, too. And—well, I guess those are the two theories. The news reported that you were the only witness, which makes it sound very suspicious. You wouldn’t believe the people calling me: Tom Shultz—remember him? He called out of the blue to ask what’s up. I told him not much had changed in the last two years, and he jumped right to you: are we still great friends? Have I heard from you? Do I think you’re wrapped up in something bad? I asked him whether he even knew you, and he said of course he does, from the news.”

“The news?”

“Yeah, Xander, you’re still in the news. Lots of murders in Youngstown, but something out here in the township is rare. And there’s not much else to report from here. So they keep posting Gary’s picture, and one of your mom, and one of you. It’s not a good one, either. From the junior yearbook in that horrible brown shirt. My mom won’t let me send them a better one. I told her maybe you could get a few dates if I sent them the ones from your deck this spring—”

Her gargantuan pause is probably filled with memories from that deck just three weeks ago. We were so happy. Damn.

“Xander?”

“Yeah, sorry. What?”

“Are you ready to come home? Daddy says you’ll have full protection, and who knows: with you here, Gary might resurface, and they can arrest him.”

“Nope. I can’t risk it. Plus, I’m fine right now. I’m recovering from what has heretofore been one fucked-up life.” At least, I hope I’m recovering. I very badly want a normal, sane life, even if that means living (briefly) in the frigid northeast. It’s not even frigid in June. Things here are fine.

A family of five bikes toward me—on the sidewalk, no less—and the parents try to keep two of the kids from falling off the curb and into the street. The youngest child, in a seat attached to his dad’s bike, mimics an ambulance siren as they whoosh by.

“What the hell was that?” Jill says.

“A family just passed me on the street.”

“You’re living on the street?”

I chuckle. “Nope. I promise you: I have somewhere to stay.” Lawyer Truth.

A recorded operator says, “
Please insert additional funds.
”

“Hold on. I need more quarters.” I fumble through my pockets and push all my change through the slot. “I think I just bought us another five minutes.”

Jill offers me cash, but wiring money to me would broadcast my whereabouts to a whole lot of people. I suspect that’s her intent anyway, because when I refuse her offer, she starts needling for details.