Solitary: A Novel (31 page)

"What about the big church-the one Ray Spencer goes to?"

"You've been to that, haven't you?"

"Yeah."

"Notice anything different?"

I don't want to tell her the things I thought I heard, the things I thought I felt.

Why are you scared to tell her that? You can tell her anything.

"Maybe a few things."

"There's no way of knowing that it isn't a church, a regular church."

"What is it?"

"They don't worship God there. You won't find the name Jesus Christ anywhere in that building, trust me."

"What?"

"Yeah. A few months ago I didn't really know, didn't really care. But it's just-that group-the ones we just saw-they're a small group that meets in private. If they were caught, they'd be in trouble."

"Like arrested?"

"No. Worse."

"Like-like what?"

She sits in the silence, and for a moment I study the outline of her face. This is surreal, all of it. The space and the soft sounds outside and the coolness of the evening and the disappearing sun.

"Jocelyn?"

"I knew it would be like this."

"Like what?"

"I sound ridiculous, I know."

"No, you don't"

"Of course I do. But, Chris-this is real. This place is real, and it's been real for a long time. And I just-I don't know. I'm searching myself. I'm trying to understand the answers."

"The answers to what?"

"What God is trying to show me."

Anybody else would get a complete wave of shutdown from the passenger side of the car at this moment, but it's Jocelyn. I still don't say anything.

"You know that six months ago, I truly didn't think there was a God. But this group-these people-they say that the Spirit-the Holy Spirit is the thing that stirs one's heart. And for a while it's been stirring. Then I pray, and my answer comes true when you come along."

"I already told you. I'm not a guardian angel."

"Maybe. I don't know. I just know this: That group I showed you, I think they really have the answers."

"The answers to what?"

"To life and death and the big question that all of us have to consider. What happens when we die?"

"I don't want to consider it."

"Even if you don't, at some point you're going to die."

"Really?" I ask in a mocking tone.

"Death has hung over my head ever since I can remember. It shows up at my door time and time again. But those people-what they talk about isn't death. It's life. Eternal life."

"People like that usually like to talk about that really hot place that people-good people even-go to if they don't believe."

"I don't believe, Chris. Not yet."

"Sure sounds like it to me."

"It's not-not like what they have. What they have is different. It's like-it's real."

I think of my mother. I think of what she thinks, what she believes. And I know it's real too.

"Lots of people can have genuine beliefs. How do you know which one is right and which one isn't?"

"I don't," Jocelyn tells me. "But I want to know. I need to know."

"I know everything I need to know."

"Maybe that's easy for you. But I'm looking for answers."

I wish and want to help her but I don't have any answers. Especially for what she's looking for.

"That group of people-they used to be part of the church my parents went to until it burned down. This is where they ended up."

For a moment I think of what this means.

Suddenly I understand a little more of where she's coming from. The same way I feel about my mother is how she's feeling. Jocelyn wants to believe what her parents believed. She's searching for answers the way they were.

I get it now. Not fully, but a little more.

"I understand."

"Do you? Really?"

"Yeah."

"Listen to me," she says, tugging at my shirt for full and undivided attention. "This isn't the daughter trying to make sure that she believes in the same heaven her parents did in order to meet up with them later. They were a part of that group, Chris. Both of them. And they both passed away because of an accident."

Now I really get it.

"You think that's a coincidence? The same way that the thing with your mom and the warning about me are?"

My heart feels like it's been tossed off a cliff. My head spins like I'm bungee jumping.

"No."

"I want to put the pieces together. All of them. But every day it seems like the puzzle just gets bigger. And every day some of the pieces seem to go missing."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Help me."

"I'll do anything you want," I tell her. "Anything."

"Okay. For now, just-just be open, okay?"

"I will."

"For anything."

"I already am."

She starts the car and turns on the lights, then drives us through the darkness back toward civilization.

We sit on the edge of a cliff, staring out over the heads of trees capped by the light of the moon above and listening to the stream of the falls below. Jocelyn holds my hand and watches me intently.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You have to know when to let me go."

I'm a little confused, since she's the one who wanted to come here. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that it's okay to let me go. To let the memory of me go."

"The memory of you?" I ask with a laugh. "I'm trying to create memories. That's the point, right?"

"You have a good heart, and I just want to make sure that you share it with others."

"I want to share it with you."

"Don't be selfish," Jocelyn tells me, kissing me on the cheek. "And don't get too stuck. Too stuck or too scared to move on."

"Okay," I say, and that's when I wake up from the vivid dream.

I don't see Jocelyn anymore that weekend. Nothing eventful happens except for the two calls I get from Ray inviting me to church. Talk about being a disciple. Both messages are taken by my mom. I don't return the calls, and Sunday morning comes and goes.

By the time I arrive at school Monday morning after the fourday weekend I have an idea of how to possibly help Jocelyn out.

I need to get some answers.

I need to find someone who not only knows them, but will actually give them to me.

Someone who's not only below the radar, but who's effectively off it.

I find him standing at his locker like he always does, rearranging things. Probably to kill time.

"Hey, Newt."

He greets me in his usual nervous fashion.

"You got any plans after school?"

Newt shakes his head, then looks around to see if anyone's watching.

I'm beginning to understand a little more why this kid is paranoid. If he knows things, and he does, then he should be paranoid.

"Can we talk?"

"About what?"

"Stuff."

"Stuff pertaining to what?"

"Things," I say.

I think he finally gets it by the look on my face. The scar on his cheek seems to redden as if it knows too.

"Things," he says.

"Yeah."

"We can't do that around here."

"You tell me where then."

"My house is secure," Newt says in the tone of a secret agent.

I want to laugh, but then again, I don't.

Too many crazy things have happened.

I no longer think this kid is crazy.

Or maybe we both are.

"Is it far from downtown?"

"Not far enough," he says.

"Write down your address when you can. I'll swing by after school."

I open the letter that Jocelyn slipped to me before second period.

Without even glancing at Jocelyn, I begin to start tearing the note into tiny pieces on my desk.

Message received, loud and clear.

Thankfully, there are no run-ins with Gus, nor any guilt trips from Ray. The day is run-in free.

I move with the masses, standing in line and stepping in place. Doing what I should.

Whoever is watching is going to get bored because there's nothing to notice.

Meanwhile, I'm noticing.

I'm trying to notice anything and everything.

When I get home, I know that Mom will be at work. I grab my bike and the handwritten directions and head out.

I ring the doorbell, and Newt cracks opens the front door to the nice-sized two-story house.

"Go around the back," he tells me through the sliver in the doorway.

This looks like a relatively new housing development, one with maybe twenty or so houses in it. Everything looks like it's maintained carefully. I walk over lush grass and find a deck in the back. Newt stands by an open screen door and waves me in.

"Come on," he says as he guides me through a kitchen and toward the stairs going down. "Shut the door behind you."

We get to the basement. It's one of those that's been finished and transformed into an entertainment room. It's complete with the big screen television, a foosball table, a pool table, even a fish tank.

A part of me wonders with both humor and irony how many others come down to play games with the kid.

"Mom's out shopping and Dad's at work. But just in case, I wanted to come down here."

"You think someone's watching us?" I try not to look at the scar on the side of his cheek, though it really stands out under all the canned lights in the ceiling.

"They're watching you," he says.

"Who are they? And why are they watching me?"

Newt surveys the room, appears to be thinking. He's an odd little guy. Even simply thinking appears to be a strenuous, awkward act.

"People around here don't like outsiders."

"My mom lived here when she was younger."

"Doesn't matter if you have ties. You're outsiders. New kids don't last long."

"What do you mean?"

"I've seen them come in, and then the family moves away. It's happened every time someone new has come around here."

"But why?" I ask.

"Certain things just are around Solitary. Certain things are just accepted. That's the way this place is."

"Like what?"

"Like Gus, for one. He gets away with so much simply because of his father."

"So his father is some rich guy who everybody wants to brown-nose?"

Newt shakes his head. "No. It's more than that."

"What then?"

"There are adults that act like-I don't know. They act like they owe Mr. Staunch something."

"What?"

"I don't know. Even my parents. We don't talk about him, but when his name comes up, they act almost ..."

"Almost what?" I ask.

"Almost scared."

I think of the figure I saw on the deck, the feeling of dread that came over me. Of course I was temporarily trespassing on his land, so I had a right to feel a bit scared.

"I overheard my parents talking-people don't ever think I'm listening because I'm little, you know, but I do-and someone mentioned Mr. Staunch in an angry way. Probably because they were drinking. And my father told the other man to be quiet. To stop talking like that. As if they couldn't say anything bad about him. It was really weird."

"Tell me something. What does this have to do with Jocelyn?"

Newt sits on the edge of the couch and looks down.

"Newt?"