Solitary: A Novel (4 page)

The beast lies in the middle of the street as if he's guarding the town.

I slow my bike down to a halt. It's a German shepherd, mostly black, with cold, menacing eyes. They bear down on me, daring me to pass.

I glance around for an owner, but there's nobody around.

A car coming the other way slows down and swerves around the dog, as if he has the right-of-way. The driver glares at me like I'm doing something wrong.

I pedal my bike toward the sidewalk, and then I hear it: the deep gargle of a growl.

The German shepherd stands.

Another car passes and honks at the dog, but the big brute appears to be more annoyed than anything else.

I get off the bike and try to roll it onto the sidewalk next to a small hardware store.

This time the dog unleashes a bark that is more like a sergeant shouting out an order.

He really doesn't want me around here.

I'm starting to reconsider my trip into Solitary and seriously thinking about turning the bike around.

Until I see the man.

A big guy-hulking, swaggering-with reddish hair and a grayish red beard walks out of the woods and across the tracks on my left toward the street. I wonder if the long trench coat he's wearing came from a thrift store selling vintage items from the 1930s.

He calls out in a voice even scarier than the dog's, and instantly the German shepherd rushes to the man's side.

Two pairs of grim eyes now look at me as if I did something wrong. I wave at the guy, then feel stupid for doing so and continue on through the main section of downtown Solitary.

I wonder again why my mom chose to come back to Solitary.

There's nothing here to come back to.

The first time we drove through downtown she seemed to barely remember it. She left when she was ten years old, the year her mother died. Her father took Mom and her older brother and headed north.

North proved to be tough for the family. Very tough indeed.

Strange that Solitary didn't mean enough for her to come and visit-not even once-yet it's the place she moves back to.

Sometimes I don't think she wanted to move so much as to hide. And this is the place to do it.

So far I haven't seen anything I recognize. No McDonald's or Subway or Starbucks or chain of any kind. Not just downtown, but anywhere.

Surely North Carolina has chains somewhere. Give me a big, fat Wal-Mart and a Whopper, and I'll be a little less nervous.

The downtown area consists of one block. A diner, a sheriffs office that looks like the one off that show with the kid named Opie, a place to get your hair cut (back home we call those salons, but this is no salon), a bookstore, a bank, a pub. A few other shops. They're all in various brick buildings, some beige, all polished and pristine. They look old and vintage, classy and clean.

Yet the place also looks abandoned.

Other than the shady character I just saw retrieving his dog, I don't see anybody else.

It's the middle of a Saturday. Where is everyone?

Our house is on the outskirts of Solitary, about ten minutes south of town, farther up in the rolling hills. The closest stores-gas, grocery, you name it-are all right here. On the gravel road our house stands on there's nothing except dense woods and a gushing creek cut down the hill that drops off from the main road.

Just as I lock up my bike and stand back up, I see her.

Jocelyn opens the door and steps inside the bookstore.

And I begin to think that I might be the luckiest soul alive.

"You don't have to hide," the voice says. "I saw you when you walked in."

I'm standing in front of a wall of books labeled SELF HELP. I turn and see Jocelyn walking over to another aisle in the store.

I decide it's impossible to pretend I just somehow wandered into The Corner Nook, a bookstore and cafe on the edge of the intersection off Main Street. I'm not looking for a book, and I don't drink coffee.

I find Jocelyn browsing through a shelf of books. A dark waterfall of hair seems to rush over the back of her T-shirt. Then I notice something startling.

A round, colorful tattoo on her inner forearm.

"Much of a reader?" she asks without looking at me.

"Not really."

"That's a shame."

"Looking for a book?"

"Either that or I'm deep in thought staring at the shelf in front of me."

I feel pretty stupid. For the second time this girl makes me feel like an idiot.

"I come in here all the time trying to find new authors," she says. "Sometimes I'm lucky."

She's holding a book in her hand, but I can't see the cover.

"So what'd you find?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon. What is it?"

Jocelyn looks at me, annoyed and unwilling to continue to play a game. "There. Happy now?"

It's a paperback novel with two figures embracing in what looks like more than just a kiss. It's called Passionate Moon.

I can't help but laugh.

"Looks like deep literature."

"I like all types of books, but I'm willing to admit it. I like romance. Even the slightly smutty kind."

"Oh, just slightly smutty."

"Did you come in here to make fun of me?"

Actually, I came in here to admire you.

"No."

"It's Chris, right?"

I nod.

"English-and-history Chris."

I nod again. Her hazel eyes seem to glow as she stares at me.

"Have a good first week?"

"Yeah. Most of my classes are pretty good. Well, English and history are."

"Nice."

"What?"

She goes back to looking at books.

"What'd I say?"

"Nice line."

"It wasn't a line-I was just being honest."

"Honesty can get you in trouble," she says.

"Yeah, I guess. But you never know if you'll have another opportunity to say the things you think but might not want to share."

Okay, I don't know where that came from. Getting past the initial awkwardness of standing here in front of Jocelyn, I feel more myself. But even I don't understand where that line came from.

It's like meeting someone famous. You get all tense and worked up and want to say the right thing even though there really is no such thing as the right thing....

Something in her face changes.

Her expression softens.

Just for a split moment.

But I see it. And it's something she can't erase or take back.

She turns her back, looking at more books.

And suddenly I feel stupid.

My embarrassment ends quickly with a ragged "Joss" yelled across the bookstore.

I turn and see a scraggly guy with watery eyes and dark bags underneath them. He's got a terrible drawl, like he's faking it. That's how bad it sounds.

I see skin on a tattooed arm that almost looks like it's falling off the bone. A hand is waving at her like a dog.

The guy curses and calls out for her again. I look at her and see yet another face.

First there was confident, beautiful Jocelyn, the one who strides around the school hallways ignoring everybody else. Then, for that brief second, there was soft Jocelyn. Friendly. Nice.

And now there's scared Jocelyn.

I see the color drain from her beautiful face.

"Excuse me," she says as she hands me the romance novel and rushes past to the front of the store.

The skinny guy, at least in his thirties or maybe early forties, wearing jeans and dirty boots and an equally dirty T-shirt, starts walking toward me, ignoring Jocelyn. She speaks to him, but he keeps coming my way.

The messy remnants of a half-grown beard and red eyes are suddenly in my face.

And I smell him.

He smells like too much liquor.

I know what that smells like.

"What are you doing?" he barks at me.

Jocelyn grabs the man's arm, and he backhands her across the cheek.

I stop breathing.

I've seen people hit before-guys hitting other guys. Just saw it happen this past week, in fact. But never have I seen someone strike with such malice, and never, ever have I seen anyone hit a girl.

He struck her on her face. That sweet, perfect face.

"What's your name?" he demands.

Everything in me wants to run. I should stand up and fight him, fight for her, but I can't. I'm taller than this guy and probably weigh the same, but the way he just slapped Jocelyn and the fire in those eyes and the smell under his breath....

He reminds me of the craziness I've seen on some cop shows, the kind of cranked idiot who drives his car into someone else's living room, then continues to bolt through the neighborhood without a single injury or clue.

"I said, `What's your name?"'

"Leave him alone," Jocelyn says.

"Are you okay?" I ask her, finally breathing, finally doing something.

"She's more than okay," the guy says with a low whisper. "But you'll never know."

He smiles at me, and I see a chipped tooth.

I'm not kidding.

This has gotta be a bad dream.

He turns and takes Jocelyn by the arm and yanks her ahead, toward the door.

She doesn't turn around.

I want to follow, but I can't.

I feel like sludge.

I want to follow, but I'm too scared.

And I don't know what I'd do if I reached her.

I can't stop thinking about her.

Sometimes drowning out the world with music helps, but not in this case. Every song I scroll to on my iPod seems to fit Jocelyn.

I wonder what happened to her after that guy pulled her out of the bookstore.

I wonder what she'll say when I see her tomorrow at school.

I wonder who he was, if he's the reason she's supposedly "spoken for."

I wonder if she'd ever go out with a guy like me.

I wonder what I'd do if I hadn't been able to bring my iPod, one of the few remnants of the past we packed up and brought with us in my mother's car.

I wonder a lot of things.

It's close to evening, and I'm exploring the woods surrounding our cabin. We're off a winding road that cuts through an endless forest. So far I haven't seen any trace of neighbors despite a couple of small cabins I've spotted along the way to ours. The driveway toward our cabin veers upward along a steep hill. Below the road the hill continues downward until it reaches the mouth of the large creek we can hear from our deck.

I'm exploring because I have nothing better to do.

Mom started drinking early today and was asleep on the couch this afternoon when I left to go outside.

Maybe that should make me sad, but I'm used to it. I wish I could take away her sadness. I know the booze sure won't.

The sunlight drips through the tall trees. It's starting to get dark.

I'm listening to the Foo Fighters and wish I could've been sixteen back when Dave Grohl was in his first band. Foo Fighters are great, but Nirvana was epic.

For a few moments I'm walking on a path that I don't even realize is a path. I figure it out and notice the way it cuts through the trees and the woods. It's an old path that hasn't been walked on for years, perhaps.

I keep following as it brings me deeper into the woods and higher up the hill.

The sunlight is fading.

I keep walking.

There are times when the trail seems to disappear, but a few minutes of searching brings me back to it.

I'm curious to see where it goes.

I probably should get back home before the blanket of night arrives. Getting lost out here could be a pain. Not dangerousno, I'd find the cabin again. It just might take me an extra hour or so.

I keep walking and reach what appears to be the top of the mountain.

And there, in the shadows of the dense woods, stands a tiny cabin with dingy windows and wild growth surrounding it. Our cabin is small, but this one-story shack is really nothing more than a room with a roof over it.

I look around but know there's no one near me.

The cabin is barely taller than me, with one window next to the door. The roof barely slopes. I walk up to it and see a dead log blocking the front door.

As I glance around, taking in my surroundings, I notice that it's gotten a lot darker. Not because of anything sinister or spooky. It's just because of the setting sun and the quickly moving clock.

Without thinking about it, I try the door. It won't budge. Three nudges don't work either, so I kick it open.

Wood slices as the rotted lock crumbles.

The door swings open, and I smell something musty.

All I see inside is darkness.

And I suddenly feel very, very cold.

I look at the bumps on my arms.

I squint and look inside. I'm a little hesitant, because I don't want some big bear coming to greet me.

I don't hear anything, so I move inside.

My eyes adjust to the cold, dim light barely making it through grimy windows. Each side of the cabin has a square window on it. It appears as though there's just one room.

I see something in the corner. A bed. It's got sheets and everything.

I walk straight into a wall of cobwebs. I brush them off my head and face and wonder where the spiders are.

There's a small stove against the opposite wall. Next to that is a cupboard. There's a table and chairs on one side of the cabin, the bed on the other.