CHAPTER 5
When I was twenty-two I was drinking too much and had already dipped my feet into the murky waters of entry-level crime, stealing cigarettes and liquor from the back rooms of stores at the edge of town and selling them to small-time hoods over in Burton.
Eventually there was an incident, a line drawn across the flow of time beyond which, for a single clear moment, I could see the future. And what I saw was the stereotypical small-town boy gone bad-cars and booze and brawls and petty crimes… all of it leading straight to some bigger crime that got me caught and sent to jail.
It was not a terrible thing that I did, not in the catalog of crimes available to human beings. But it was bad, and it was enough. I got drunk one night and stole a car from in front of someone’s house. I drove it out of town and into the forest and a mile down a fire trail I punctured its gas tank with a screwdriver and set it on fire. I watched it burn with my jaw set tight in a selfish fury at a world that had maneuvered me into hating myself so much.
When the flames died I curled up beside the wreck and listened to it tick and crack until I fell asleep. I was drunk enough to feel, before I lost consciousness, a self-righteous satisfaction at the small revenge I had wrought. But it was different in the morning. The charred stink of the car’s remains woke me and I saw what I had done. What I had really done. The booze-fueled justice of my vandalism had been replaced while I slept with a reality that was mean and vicious and petty. I had stolen someone’s car. Chances were that it was the only one they owned, that it was their largest purchase, scrimped and saved for. Chances were that it was not insured and that it would take my unknown victim months to replace.
When I told Marla what I was going to do, what I
But I knew none of it would be enough and within a month I was gone from Oakridge, leaving Marla with a broken heart and her dream of a safe and normal relationship in ruins.
The second time I went around to Marla’s house after my return to Oakridge it was seven o’clock in the morning on my third day back. My father had told me she’d left waitressing and worked now for the town council, so I was pretty sure she’d be at home. I could have called first, but I was too frightened she would tell me not to come.
I knocked on the door. I could hear a radio playing inside and it crossed my mind that she might be listening to it with someone. I’d seen no evidence of a lover on my previous visit, and when I’d thought about her during my years away I’d taken it for granted that she would always be available. But it struck me now that I really had no reason to think this, that I might be about to enter a scene that could turn out to be very awkward indeed. But then, even the best-case scenario that morning was going to be anything but easy.
The radio dropped in volume. There was time to draw a breath, time to feel my blood fizzing with adrenaline, time for the pressure of an unbearable anxiety to stretch my heart. Time for me to realize I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to her. Then the door opened.
And she was there in front of me, slim, short, her dark hair long and tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in office clothes, but her blouse was not fully buttoned and she was wearing tired-looking Ugg boots on her feet. When she saw me her hand flew to her mouth. A second later she reached out and took a handful of my shirt and pulled me against her.
“I wondered how long it would take you to get around to me.”
She looked closely at my face, my eyes, then stepped away and walked back down the hall, calling over her shoulder for me to come in.
In the kitchen the air smelled of toast and coffee. She took a cup from beside the sink and filled it and handed it to me, then stood leaning against the counter, examining me coolly.
“You’re going gray.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got lines too.”
“Still me underneath.”
“The old you? Not after eight years, Johnny. I’m not the old me.”
We were silent for a long time, neither of us knowing how to swing open the great barrier of time that stood between us. Eventually I said the only thing I thought might have meaning for her.
“I’m sorry.”
A look of disbelief crossed her face. “What?”
“I know I hurt you when I left-”
“Do you know how pathetic that is? Hurt? I wasn’t hurt, I was fucking destroyed.”
“You know why I had to go. We talked about it-”
“You asshole. Don’t you dare make it sound like we had some sort of discussion. The ‘talking’ was you whining about how unhappy you were and me trying to tell you how much I loved you so you wouldn’t go. And what good did it do? Did it fix all your problems? Did it make Stan better? Did it make everything all right again?”
“No.”
“What? I didn’t hear.”
“No, it didn’t. It was a huge fucking mistake.”
Marla took a breath and let it out slowly. “Do you know how many nights I cried over you? Do you have any idea how empty I felt?”
I put my arms around her. She kept hers by her sides but she rested her head against my chest and spoke quietly.
“I knew you’d do this. Just turn up one day… Jesus Christ, I feel like I’m coming apart.”
“Do you want me to go?”
She was silent for a while. When she spoke again there was such a note of defeat in her voice I felt dirty.
“No.”
I kissed her. For a moment she responded, pressing herself against me, then she pushed away abruptly.
“Enough, Johnny! Jesus! We’re going to have to take some time about this, don’t you think?”
We sat at a small wooden table that stood against one wall of the kitchen and drank coffee and sidestepped the misery that boiled in our pasts by talking about the plain surface of our lives.
Marla told me about keeping the house on after I left, how she’d had some bad times but had turned things around a year ago when she’d landed her job as an administrative assistant for the town council. I told her about London. Twenty minutes later, as she was making her final preparations for work, I raised the subject of my father and Patricia Prentice.
“I drove by yesterday.”
“Really?”
“In the afternoon. I saw a couple of people come in here. Into the house. Their cars were parked in the driveway.”
“You aren’t the only person I know.”
“You know who they were, then?”
Marla dropped her house keys into her bag. “Just some friends.”
“Friends, huh?”
“All right. Jesus. You saw who they were.”
“You can’t blame me for being curious about what my father was doing here.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“As if I could ever ask him anything like that.”
“He wouldn’t want me to tell you.”
“So what?”
