Solitary: A Novel (38 page)

"And you just tossed the gun out the car window?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Where?"

"I don't know. Somewhere in the woods-somewhere between there and here."

Wells stares at my mother for a while and seems to be thinking.

"That fool of a man-I told him to stop it-I told him he better get his mind back in the right place." Aunt Helen sits next to Jocelyn and looks her over. "He's gone, now, and he's probably gone for good."

"Look, why don't you ladies go out while I talk to Chris and his mother, okay?"

Jocelyn looks at me with a fearful glance, one that seems to say, Don't leave me. Don't let me go.

"Can I-" I start to ask.

"I just need a few moments," the sheriff says.

I nod as Jocelyn follows her aunt outside.

I hear the sheriff sigh and watch as he rubs his hand through thinning hair.

"Look. I know Wade-he's up to no good. He's had some run-ins with the police before. I know his kind. I wouldn't shed a tear if you'd killed the guy. He's probably already down to Florida by now, drunk out of his mind and probably needing a change of pants after you almost killed him. I doubt he'll be back."

I'm waiting to hear the verdict, waiting to hear the trouble I'm in.

"You keep your original story and that'll be the end of it. I'll have Jocelyn file an official complaint and that will be it. No gun and no shooting and no missing handgun. Got it?"

I nod.

"Thank you," Mom says.

"Listen to me. Both of you. Wade is a lowlife. And there's no guarantee he won't come back. You two are alone in this cabin, and I can't be driving by every moment of every day. You sure you got rid of that handgun?"

I nod and breathe in and don't blink, but I doubt the sheriff believes me.

"Well, if you did, if you really did, then you guys might think about getting some more protection. Mrs. Buckley, there are some dangerous people out there in this world, even around Solitary."

"You don't think that this has anything to do with what happened to me at the restaurant?"

The sheriff shakes his head. "That's what I don't like. You two are attractin' trouble, and I just-well, you might just want to think twice about Solitary."

"What about Solitary?"

"Being here."

"We're not going anywhere, Mr. Wells."

"I hear you. I know. I'm just sayin'."

"What exactly are you saying?"

I wait for a response, but the sheriff just nods. "Nothing. Except be careful."

"We're being careful. My son just happened to be called to help out a young girl in a precarious situation."

"I know. It's just-well, it seems like there are more and more of these-what'd you call 'em?-percarious situations."

"Precarious," Mom answers.

I look at the sheriff and wonder.

Can I trust him?

I wonder if I can tell him what's going on with Jocelyn. What's happening with her and what she suspects about this place.

"You folks gotta be careful, that's all I'm sayin'. I don't want to have to come back here if anything happens, got that?"

"I understand," Mom says.

The stern face looks at me, as if waiting for me to tell him more.

Don't, Chris. Not yet. Not now.

We walk outside and see Aunt Helen standing next to the police car with Jocelyn.

"I'll take them home," Sheriff Wells says. "I need to get a statement from Jocelyn."

I feel like I'm at the edge of an ocean watching Jocelyn getting into a boat heading into the stormy sea.

She hugs me and tells me it will be okay and she will call me later.

I want to ask what we do from here and where do we go and what happens next, but I know she doesn't have a clue anymore than I do.

As we hold one another, I can feel a trembling.

I can't tell if it's me or Jocelyn.

Or both of us.

"I'll be fine," she says.

But I don't believe it.

As the car backs down our driveway, I watch it leave and I wonder when I'll see her again.

I stare down at the woods below us, hearing the burble of the creek.

I watch for a while, as if I'm waiting to see someone come out of those woods.

I know someone is watching me. I just can't see him.

Someone's there.

If you are, then you'll know that I'm not scared.

That's what I think, but deep down, I'm terrified.

I'm terrified of losing her.

It's always strange how life moves on after something dramatic or even tragic. But it doesn't have a choice. The world keeps spinning and the story keeps going whether you like it or not.

The following week is uneventful, and in many ways, things go back to the way they were before the warnings and the drama occurred.

For whatever reason-I don't think it's even a conscious decision-I'm back to talking to Jocelyn in the halls, eating with her and the girls at lunch. I invite Newt to join us, but he doesn't. Jocelyn scares him.

The thing is this: I'm not disguising my friendship with her anymore.

It's as if both of us know that I shot someone in her defense.

As if both of us are thinking, If it happened once, it will happen again.

I can't say that I'm feeling bolder or stronger since the incident. In fact, every day I half expect to see a bloody Wade step into my path like some sick and foul-smelling zombie.

Yet the teachers drone on and the dirty snow sticks on your jeans and the cafeteria food all begins to taste the same-this is how I believe the world moves on. You get lulled in by the action of one period after another, of the days being shorter and your mom's shifts being longer. Of exams coming before Christmas break. Of homework that takes your mind to another time and place. Of life that moves faster than you can or ever will.

The week passes, and it seems like things are better.

Then Friday comes and ruins all that wonderful, boring momentum.

I'm on the side of a road-I'm not really sure exactly where-and I'm running.

Why am I here? Why am I running?

These are good questions.

If my hands weren't covered in blood, I'd probably answer them too.

But soon enough, when things don't exactly add up-like how I can just keep sprinting without actually slowing down and hurting and sucking wind-or how I'm not even sweating-or how I'm wearing the sweetest Nike shoes ever when I don't own anything by Nike-when all of these things suddenly seem to not make sense, I understand why.

That's when I open my eyes and wake up.

What was I doing on the side of the road, blood on my hands, running? It's not a good way to start a day. Even if that day is the last day for the school week.

I see him on my way to school that morning.

See him standing at the edge of my driveway.

The big redheaded man in the trench coat, the one I saw in town right after we moved here. I see him standing down there as my mom backs the car up to drive me to school.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know," I say. "Slow down."

The man stands there for a moment, his big German shepherd at his side, almost deliberately blocking our path. He looks like a ghost in the early morning fog.

I glance at my mom in surprise and shock, then turn back around to find the end of the driveway clear.

"Where'd he go?"

"He just disappeared."

And he did. Just like that, the figure is gone.

I think about those large tracks on our deck and suddenly figure out who they belong to.

But what's this creepy guy doing around our house? Does he live close by? Is he spying on us for someone else?

"That's strange," my mom says.

I can only agree with her. It's becoming a cliche to say something is strange around here. Everything is strange.

Strange and unexplained.

"Still no sign of him?"

Jocelyn shakes her head. We're talking about Wade, her step-uncle, who disappeared with a slug in his calf. "I don't think we will either."

"How's your aunt doing?"

Jocelyn rolls her eyes but doesn't answer. I can't tell if it's just because she thinks her aunt is flaky, or if there's something else.

Its so hard to read you, even though I feel I know so much about you.

Maybe that's just how it is with other people. Specifically other girls. Or maybe the entire female population. I don't know.

We round the hall on our way to history when we see them.

The creepy vibe just keeps continuing.

Pastor Jeremiah Marsh stands at the end of the lockers next to an open doorway, his hands stretched out as if he's making an important point. He's talking to Mr. Meiners, who looks at him in a grim manner, as if he's being told someone in his family just died.

As we pass them by, both men look at us and stop talking.

"Chris, Jocelyn," the pastor says to us, nodding.

We mumble hellos as we pass them.

"What do you think that's about?" I ask Jocelyn.

"I can only imagine."

"Imagine what?"

"I have a vivid imagination," she says. "You have to remember that."

"How do they know each other?"

"Everybody in this town knows everybody else. Especially all those living inside of Solitary."

"But Mr. Meiners-does he go to that church?"

"I don't know," she says sharply, as if to say, "Drop it."

I don't pursue the question any more.

Surely it's nothing. Surely the pastor is just visiting the school for some reason.

Please don't call me Shirley.

I want to laugh out loud and squeeze the insanity from my brain cells. I can probably fill a bucket from it.

"What's that smirk on your face for?" Jocelyn asks as we arrive to class.

"I don't know. I really don't. Sometimes I just-it seems like all I can do is laugh."

"It's better than crying."

My mom contradicts herself. I guess all of us do. But when you're an adult you gotta be careful because kids are watching, you know? I'm old enough that I no longer get so confused. I'm kinda over all of it. But still I have to find it funny-or perhaps ironic-to see my mother's actions.

She celebrates Christmas, and not just in a small way either. With all of her anger at my father for his newfound faith-maybe I should call it a righteous anger, now wouldn't that be ironic-she still seems to almost believe in the whole child-in-a-manger thing. Guess that's okay. Yeah, Jesus was born in a manger in a town called Bethlehem. That's a safe thing to believe in. I mean, if you don't, then you can't have all those great Christmas carols, including my favorite, "We Three Kings."

It's the other part, the Easter part, that Mom has a problem with.

She's okay with the birth, just not the death. And especially not the resurrection.

As for me, like I said, I'm over it. I'm indifferent.

The only thing that concerns me is Jocelyn celebrating this day with us.

And as for Jocelyn, well-she takes Christmas very seriously.

Christmas Day comes, and with it comes snow, and with that comes safety. I don't know why, but I know that nothing's going to happen on this day. Maybe because it's supposed to be sacred or maybe because the strangers outside are too busy to watch. I don't know. All I know is that Jocelyn is planning on coming over later to celebrate Christmas Day with a party of three.

Mom has already told me that we won't be celebrating with our aunt. Something tells me that Aunt Alice won't exactly be celebrating Christmas.

She'll be too busy sticking needles in her voodoo dolls.

I'm sure Mom would tell me to knock it off if she could hear my thoughts.

I hear the song in the background. Christmas music is okay and it pipes out loud: one of those solemn, contemporary Christmas tunes, one I've heard a bunch of times before.

Glancing out the window, seeing the thick flakes dancing around as I watch the driveway for Jocelyn, I feel depressed. Listening to The Smiths or Interpol or something like that should be depressing, but Christmas music? But this song is sad. Like I need any more sadness in my life.

I remember this one since it's on this CD my mother plays every year. The lyrics stand out. In a world as cold as stone, the woman sings. Must I walk this path alone?