The Passenger (15 page)

“Haven't seen you around,” the bartender said. It wasn't a question.

“First time,” I said, trying to plot the conversation in advance without knowing the sharp turns it might take.

“What the hell would bring you to Recluse?”

“That's a good question,” I said.

Some people are satisfied to let their questions dangle like a participle (we would not be having that lesson any time this year).

“My name's Sean, if you need anything.”

I guess he was the kind of person who might let a question dangle.

I drank my beer and reread
From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler
, the book I'd assigned to the class because it was one I remembered so fondly from my childhood. In the book a brother and sister run away from home and hide in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We didn't have any museums in my hometown, but I did manage to break into the local library when I was eleven and slept through the night. It wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped it would be and I got in a hell of a lot of trouble, but knowing that I could pull it off, slip unnoticed between the stacks as Mrs. Cragmire swept the library for patrons, gave me a certain sense of pride.

As I composed comprehension and discussion questions for the class—
If you could break into any establishment in Recluse, what would it be?
—I clocked the other patrons in the bar, trying to get an angle on what would make someone move to a town that had a two-to-one bar-to-diner ratio. Apparently oblivion was much more important in Recluse than sustenance.

Sean asked me if I wanted a refill. When he slid the pint glass in front of my reading material, he seemed to come to some conclusions about me.

“You must be the new teacher,” Sean said.

I took inventory of Sean the second time he passed my way. His age was hard to figure. He could have been forty-eight or sixty-five. He was lean like a panther. His face was etched with deep, perfectly symmetrical lines, lines that suggested he did his fair share of smiling. His eyelids were hooded and tired, hiding dark brown eyes. His hair needed a trimming; he kept flicking it out of his eyes, like he was swatting a fly. He had all of his teeth, which I couldn't say about too many other folks in this establishment. He wore the uniform of the town: a plaid shirt, worn blue jeans, and work boots that looked like they'd seen more than the beer-stained floor of a saloon.

“That would be me,” I said.

“I've heard about you,” he said.

“What have you heard?”

“I heard you like road maps.”

“You have a good source.”

“I do,” Sean said with a tiny smirk.

“I guess people talk in a town this size.”

“My source is better than town gossip.”

“Now you've got me curious,” I said.

Maybe my voice had an edge to it. Maybe it didn't. I tried to hold my expression steady and open, but I didn't much like the idea of people talking about me and coming to conclusions.

“My grandson's in your class.”

The tingling sensation in the back of my neck quieted.

“Is that so? Your grandson got a name?”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew,” I said.

With the connection drawn, I saw the resemblance, which is often the only time you spot it. They had the same red lips, and come to think of it, Andrew's eyes were kind of heavy for an eight-year-old.

“Has he made an impression?” Sean asked.

He had. Andrew's mother was always late to pick him up. Since I had nowhere to go, I always sat with him on the stoop. We'd sit and gossip about presidents. Well, Andrew did. Apparently Franklin Roosevelt wore dresses when he was a child; Abraham Lincoln was a licensed bartender; Grover Cleveland was a hangman; Andrew Johnson was a tailor. It's quite possible that Andrew—the child, not the president—had taught me more than I taught him. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for our educational system, but let's hope that unqualified teachers working under an assumed name are an anomaly.

I leaned in and whispered, “Tell you the truth, he's my favorite.”

“He's my favorite too,” said Sean. “You got him thinking about places other than Wyoming, places he might want to see. My daughter doesn't know anything but this town, so she can't advise him about the world beyond, but I'm hoping he gets out. I'm thinking you're giving him directions out of here. I hope he remembers them when the time comes.”

“Me too.”

A customer named Dave, covered in work dust, approached the bar. Sean poured his drink en route.

“You are a mind reader,” Dave said.

“Cheers,” said Sean.

No money exchanged hands, but a mild gesture communicated some kind of transaction. Dave returned to his table. Sean wiped the already shiny bar down with a rag. Either habit, or he was trying to stay close. He pretended to be working on a spot that was really a scrape that would only vanish with sandpaper.

“What are you really doing here?” Sean asked.

“Having a beer. Well, two beers, and to be perfectly honest, maybe three.”

“No. Here. In Recluse.”

“What is anyone doing anywhere? We all have to be someplace.”

“Look around,” said Sean. “Everyone in this bar was born here. Most had plans to leave at one time or another, but then at some point they got caught in a snare, and like an animal, lacked the cunning to undo the clamp.”

“What was your snare?” I asked.

“This bar. I worked here a few years after I turned eighteen, was saving money to go to Alaska, where I heard real money could be had. Homer, the owner, had no kin and when he got lung cancer, he just left the whole thing to me.”

“That was generous,” I said.

Sean finally put down that rag, dropped two shot glasses on the table, and poured some decent stuff.

“Was it?” he said. “Because lately I've been thinking that Homer knew what he was doing. Way back in the day, when I'd talk about getting out, being free of Recluse, Homer liked to take a hammer to my dreams, knocking the legs out of my plans. I think he liked the idea of others facing his same sorry fate. Then he didn't feel as alone as he always had been. I think his
generous
gift was a curse, and he knew it. His final act as a dying man was to make sure that someone followed in his sorry footsteps.”

“That's quite a sinister theory you've got there,” I said.

Sean shrugged and slid the shot glass in front of me. He raised his.

“What are we drinking to?” I asked.

“To escape plans?”

“Whose?”

“Anyone with the guts,” said Sean.

We clinked glasses. I downed my shot, put a few bills on the bar, and slid off the bar stool. Sean nodded so slightly it was almost imperceptible.

“Come back,” he said.

“I'll think about it,” I said.

But I knew I'd be back. I had no other place to go.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Andrew and I were sitting on the stoop when Cora stepped outside and craned her neck to get a longer look down the road.

“Did you see that man?”

“What man?”

“There was this guy watching the school earlier. He was just standing outside the fence while the kids were at lunch. Then I just saw him again through my office window.”

“Did he try talking to them?”

“No. He just stood there, like he was looking for someone.”

“Maybe he's a relative of one of the kids or something.”

“I know everyone's kin,” said Cora.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Cora said sadly. “It's that kind of town.”

“I'll keep my eyes open,” I said. “It's probably nothing.”

Thing is, I knew it wasn't nothing. You know that stumbling walk you do after you've tripped? That's what my brain felt like.

“Have you ever been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?” Andrew asked.

We'd been talking about our class assignment and Andrew had gotten quite fixated not just on the idea of breaking into a place and staying the night, but on art museums and places that only big cities had to offer. It's not that he hadn't been some places worth seeing—the Grand Tetons, cowboy museums—but he was taking note of a world out there beyond his imagination. Lying low all this time, I hadn't seen much of the world, either.

“I'm afraid I haven't,” I said.

“Have you been to New York City?”

“No.”

“Huh.” He looked disappointed in me, as if some of my shine had worn off.

If he only knew.

Before Andrew could quiz me any further about my narrow worldview, his mother mercifully arrived.

R
ECLUSE OFFERED
a limited number of patterns for a life to take. I had only been there a month and I was beating a well-worn path. There were lessons all day, class cleanup in the afternoon. A few nights a week I stayed in my basement apartment, made noodles on a hot plate, and studied up for the next day's assignment. A few other nights a week, always at least one night on the weekend, I ventured into the Lantern. I had one or two drinks, on rare occasions three, but I knew better than to get blotto.

On a three-drink night, Sean invited me to Andrew's birthday party, the next weekend at Dead Horse Lake, another name that didn't exactly instill confidence. Sean was taking his grandson and a few family friends out fishing on a friend's boat. Maybe another kid from the class would come, but so far no one had accepted the invitation. On a one-drink night, I would have thought wiser of exposing myself to a full day of socializing, but I accepted the invitation.

The next weekend I boarded a boat, baited a fishing rod that Sean had brought just for me, sat under a cold cloudy sky, and waited for something to bite. Andrew whined about the chill in the air. He'd managed one companion. His name was Clark. He was one grade below, had a deviated septum and a pronounced lisp. It was easy to conclude that Andrew didn't much care for Clark, but he was better than nothing, which was an idea that I was all too well acquainted with. Also on board the
Royal Fortune
—the boat's owner had affection for pirate lore, I learned—was Andrew's perpetually tardy mother, Shawna, and her boyfriend, Cal, who as far as I could tell was under a strict word quota for the day. He answered questions with a minimalism that would have impressed a monk under a vow of silence. If a nod could suffice instead of a yes or no, Cal took that option. Sean had also invited a few of his fishing buddies, all amiable sun-baked men far more interested in the cooler of Bud Light than any bounty the lake had to offer.

The wind picked up at midday and the sky swirled gray and blue and dank. The cold air felt like impending rain. We weren't far from shore, so Sean suggested we wait it out despite the lurching of the boat and Andrew's determined pleas to return to land. No one caught anything and Clark was leaning over the railing, fighting to keep the contents of his stomach from spilling into the choppy waters.

I picked up a beer, uncapped it, and got tossed onto the deck at the bow, spilling the watery brew all over my shirt. I heard a howl and when I returned my gaze to where Clark had been buckling over the railing, he was gone.

My companions were staring into the blue abyss, panic pumping their blood but also freezing their feet in place. I quickly shucked my shoes and jacket and jumped overboard.

Diving into the frigid lake knocked the breath out of me. I surfaced in the choppy waters, gobbled air, and dove under, eyes searching in the murk.
There are no damn fish in this godforsaken lake
, I thought. There was also no sign of Clark.

I kicked to the surface again, to check for signs of him. On deck, they were all gesturing for me to swim toward the bow. I crawled against the current, dove under again, and caught a glimpse of Clark's orange windbreaker, the color choice a stroke of luck. I grasped a tiny purchase on his sleeve, pulling him into a vise grip until I could swing my other arm around him and lift him above the lapping waves. He gurgled and coughed, and I saw the lifesaver Sean had thrown overboard. I backstroked until I had my free arm looped around it.

Clark thrashed in my arms, still in a panic. I wasn't sure how we were going to get him on the boat. But Sean was quick on his feet and tossed me a rope. I tied it under Clark's arms and the crew hoisted him up along the gunwale. When he was safely on board, I dolphin-kicked over to the pontoon ladder and climbed back on deck.

Clark and I huddled under a blanket while Sean guided the motorboat back to dock at such a clip, he forgot to release the throttle and beached, which caused a sound that would have made the boat's owner cry dollar signs.

Andrew, Clark, and I drove in Sean's four-seater pickup back to Recluse. The heat was cranked so high, I could see drips of sweat spilling down Andrew's cheeks. He didn't say a word. He simply looked cautiously back and forth between me and Clark.

“You okay, young man?” Sean asked the sopping-wet boy.

Clark stuttered a bit before he spoke. “I-I-I don't feel like throwing up anymore.”

We dropped the boy off first at his parents' house. It was a cabin so small and square you could hardly imagine it fitting more than a single room inside. I watched the exchange through the fogged-up window of the truck. They seemed to take matters in stride. The mother took him into the house to get him out of his clothes, and the father nodded earnestly and patted Sean on the shoulders in that no-hard-feelings kind of way. At some point Sean gestured toward our truck and the father saluted me, as a signal of thanks, I suppose.

Andrew climbed in the middle of the front seat next to me.

“I can't wait to tell everyone at school about this,” he said.

I knew then that my days in Recluse were numbered. I just hadn't started the countdown yet.

I
GOT
the nickname Nemo because Andrew told the class I swam like a dolphin. Being landlocked, the kids had never heard of any of the Sea World stars, so they named me after the only famous fish they could think of. It beat Shamu. The local rag gave it all a small write-up. I generally avoided having my picture taken, but one of my colleagues managed to capture from a distance a grainy shot of me refereeing a game of dodgeball. Because the tiny paper was run by a retired newsman, not inclined toward modern technology, the article never made it online. I ran a series of searches on “Debra Maze” just to be sure. I found others, and I think I caught a reference to the real one—a missing person from Ohio. But I figured I was safe for a while.