Marvel and a Wonder (23 page)

“They said I had to talk to you,” she repeated.

He faced the girl. No girl had ever said more to him than she already had. In a white shirt and jeans, she was frowning, eyes as bright blue as a bird’s egg, hair long and light blond, her skin white and scrubbed. She was taller than he was.

“They asked if you wanted to come pray with us,” the girl said.

He glanced over and noticed the girl’s parents standing in front of their station wagon, both of them smiling, the father peering over the rim of his glasses, the mother in a plain blue dress, left hand raised in a polite wave. Quentin, having been raised mostly by his grandparents, knew to wave back.

“Do you want to or not?” she asked.

The boy, glancing over at the arcade screen, seeing his game was over, felt cheated but mumbled, “Okay,” intrigued by the girl standing there, by the idea of praying with strangers. He followed her over to where her parents were standing.

“These are my parents,” the girl said.

The boy nodded at both of them, afraid to look either in the eye. The father spoke in a pleasant voice, like a radio announcer. “I’m David. And this is Jan. We’re pleased to meet you.”

“Hi.”

“You met Denise, of course.”

Quentin nodded again.

“And you are?” Jan asked.

“Quentin.”

“Quentin,” the father said, approving. The boy stared at the man’s thin face for a moment and had a flash of what, all these years, he had secretly dreamt his own father might have looked like. “We’re glad you’ve decided to join us, Quentin.”

In a small, impromptu circle, the father leaned over and took his daughter’s hand, grasping his wife’s in his other, Jan, the mom, taking Quentin’s hand, the girl, with an expression of minor disdain, taking his left. Each of them save Quentin closed their eyes. The boy now stared at them, at their lack of fear, at their stunning blandness, and felt chastened.

“Heavenly Father, we thank you for bringing our friend Quentin into our lives, and hope he has a chance to experience the wonder and glory each of us have in the service of Your mission, dear Lord. Grant all of us peace and safety on our journeys today. Through Christ our Lord, amen.”

The girl let go of Quentin’s left hand, the mother still holding his right.

From where he stood, he looked past the father and mother and saw a girl, a year or two younger than the one standing beside him, sitting in the backseat of the station wagon; the girl had long blond hair and skin that was too white, the white slowly fading to pink, the eyelashes white also, the shape of the girl’s forehead a little too wide, too prominent, the rest of her body looking small, doll-like in comparison. He gawked there for a moment, seeing the other girl struggling in the backseat. The girl was huffing, grunting, moaning to herself, with an animal ferocity. She was bound up in some kind of special seat with dark blue and black seatbelts holding her in. It seemed like she was having a fit of some kind: her eyes kept flashing open and closed, her head jerking back and forth, her small, clawlike hands twitching before her.

“What’s wrong with her?” Quentin asked without thinking.

The mother smiled numbly, still holding Quentin’s hand. “That’s Clarissa. She’s handicapped.”

“She looks like she’s screaming.”

“She has seizures. There’s nothing we can do to about it.”

The boy nodded, the noise of the girl screaming, twisting there, fighting against her restraints, her clenched fingers scraping uselessly before her, the sound now culling the soft words of their prayer back from the air. Somehow this encounter seemed to describe all the questions the boy had about God.

* * *

It was with obvious dread that the younger brother saw the older was no longer fit to drive, or do much of anything. The wheel was loose in Edward’s hands, his eyes glazed and rheumy, so that wherever they were headed—an address on New Circle Road—no longer mattered; if Edward was driving they would never find the place, only circle around over and over again in infinite condemnation. It was because Edward had been ruined by the drugs he wanted to sell and was no longer even paying attention. He had been busy the last hour itching his neck until a red welt appeared, glowing there like a second, reptilian mouth. Finally, he announced that he had to find somewhere to piss. Gilby took it as no small relief, deciding he would either convince Edward to give him the keys or not get back in the truck with him.

They pulled into the parking lot of a tiny gas station with a sign that featured no prices for the gasoline it was selling. The older brother hurried from the truck, holding his hands over his crotch, limping toward the bathroom door which was located around the back of the squat, concrete building. It turned out the john’s only urinal was already occupied, a slim-looking fellow with longish blond hair pissing silently, Edward hissing, springing from foot to foot, mumbling curse words even he didn’t recognize. The man at the urinal did not seem to notice, only stood there, relaxed, head hung forward, one arm resting against the cold brick wall before him. There was something about the man’s posture—about the red and blue tendons in his neck, something about his greasy hair and exposed genitalia—which Edward could not bear. Unthinking, nostrils flaring, he reached down into his heavy boot and gripped the small knife in his hand. The man seemed to take notice, glancing over his shoulder to where Edward was crouched. But it was too late, or so the older brother thought, knowing that as soon as he had opened the bathroom door and caught a glimpse of the man standing there vulnerable before him, he had no choice but to physically violate him. It was not even his own fault. The older brother lunged forward, forcing the tip of the knife deep into the man’s side, slipping his left hand over the man’s mouth, pressing the weapon through the clothing into the flesh deeply, the man’s body going tense, arms flailing, Edward holding his left hand against the heat and moisture of the man’s panicked mouth, and then forcing him to the floor, kneeling over him, seeing the pattern of red slowly forming there along the dirty tile, he finally felt calm, he finally felt like he could think again. He squatted there, marking the sign of the cross on the tip of his own forehead, on his sternum, his left shoulder, his right.

The man on the ground was alive, mouthing faint words no one could hear.

Gilby knocked once, opened the door—not hearing any answer—and saw the odd shape lying there, eyes wide open, mouth still working. His older brother was kneeling above the wounded man, the knife still in hand, and looked to be just as horrified. Gilby knew he should run away, should make for the truck and hope the keys were still there, but he did not. He felt trying to run from his brother now would be as dumb as trying to run from a storm cloud, the moon, the night. He took the knife from his brother’s hand, made sure to lock the door behind them, and hurried off, leading Edward back to the truck, a conformation of fine red dots showing on his brother’s neck, hands, and face, the daylight calling into question what had just occurred.

* * *

Both of them got out at a roadside Arby’s, built beside the exit ramp of the highway; the boy was near starving, or so he claimed, and the grandfather needed to change the bandages again. The latrine was a dismal fluorescent crypt. Jim tossed the bloodied bandage in the garbage and replaced it with harsh brown paper towels.

When he returned from the washroom, the grandfather took a seat across from the boy, who was busy wolfing down his sandwich. Jim stared at the greasy potato cakes like they were some puzzle to behold, flicking at them with his thumb and forefinger, before fixing his glare over the edge of the plastic booth, through the bug-specked windows at the traffic flying past. They were getting close now; in less than an hour they’d be in Lexington. All he wanted was to see the horse again and get back home; to rest, standing beside his grandson along the snake-rail fence.

The boy finished his sandwich quickly and then spoke up, interrupting the old man’s thoughts. “Grandpa?”

“Hm.”

“Shouldn’t we keep driving? I mean, if we want to get there in time?”

“That girl said the bus is supposed to pull in at six. We’ll be there in an hour. Besides, we got to rest awhile so we keep our wits. That’s one thing the army taught me. Something old Stan Mutter used to say. Anybody can go about waving a gun or pulling a knife. If you keep your smarts about you, you can be in charge of any situation. You remember that now. You’re smart enough as it is. You just got to learn to keep your wits.”

“Did you like the army? When you were in it?”

The grandfather smiled tightly. “I don’t know. When I was in it, no one ever bothered to ask me.”

“Do you think I should join? When I’m old enough?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’d like it but I think you should do something. Be good to get out of town. No place for young folks anymore.”

“They’ve got computer specialists now. Doing radar and missiles and things. And they pay for college.”

“Well sure.”

“I was going to join last year. When I ran away.”

“What?” The grandfather stared at the boy sitting before him. “When was this?”

“Last year. I ran away. I was going to go join the hunt for Sasquatch. Or enlist in the army. Either one, I guess.”

“When did you run off?”

“When all those chickens had blackhead.”

“Last October?”

“I left you a note but nobody saw it.”

“Where’d you go?” the grandfather asked.

“At first, I was going to head up to Canada. Remember? We saw that show about the Sasquatch up there. So I just took some things and left. I borrowed one of your knives. The fishing one. The silver one. In case I had to stab something. I ended up just staying in the Kellers’ barn.”

“Whose barn?”

“The Kellers. Across the way.”

“Well, that’s not running off. They’re right down the road there.”

“But I didn’t tell anyone where I was.”

“Did they know you were there? The Kellers, I mean.”

“After the first day, I guess. Mrs. Keller brought me some food and told me I oughta call you.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Hm. Did you thank her when you got back?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ll tell you—we didn’t have running away when I sixteen. We called it becoming a man. You should think about it sometime.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the truth. I was your age, I couldn’t wait to buck free.”

“When I get back, I’m gonna see about the army.”

“Well, you do what you think is best for you. There’s plenty of other things besides the army. The army ain’t for everyone.”

“I’d like to see the world.”

“Oh, you would?”

“I’d like to see different sorts of girls. British ones. And German ones. I’d like to go to Germany. See famous things. I’m not gonna live here the rest of my life.”

“Where? Mount Holly?”

“No. America.”

“Hm.”

It suddenly saddened Jim to think that the boy would one day be somewhere he was not, somewhere he could not call or shout and expect to see the boy’s face appearing in the near distance. He flicked at the larded ends of his potato cakes and said, “We can go talk to the fella together. From the army, I mean, if that’s what you decide. All right?”

The boy nodded, slurping on his soda, and in seeing him do so, it was hard not to imagine he was still just a kid. The grandfather glanced at the other customers in the restaurant, resuming his solemnity. A little boy dressed as an Indian chief—with freckled skin, eyes a fair shade of green, wearing a feathered headdress and fringed buckskin—entered the restaurant, holding his mother’s hand. Together they walked right past the booth where Jim and his grandson were sitting, Quentin fiddling with the remains of his fast food. The child—the Indian chief—seemed to study Quentin’s face for a moment; the little boy tugged on his mother’s wrist—the mother leaning over, the boy asking a rude question out loud before they ambled on toward the front of the establishment. In that moment, Jim had no reason to feel anger or shame, as he had asked that same question often enough—daily, sometimes in front of his own grandchild—and yet now he felt both. The boy did not even seem to notice he had been insulted, and if he had, he looked like he was accustomed to it—the vague finger-pointing, the dropped, muffled voice—as there was nothing in his face that betrayed any kind of resentment. This willingness to silently suffer—the boy’s calm, gray-toned complexion in the light of ignorance—caused, in the grandfather’s heart, an inexorable anger. He turned to his grandson and said, louder than he expected: “Quentin.”

“Hm?”

“You need to learn to say something.”

“Huh?”

“You need to learn to speak up for yourself.”

The grandson looked down, guilt-faced.

Jim shook his head and snatched his hat from the adjoining tabletop, wincing a little as he got to his feet. He strode across the tile floor to where the woman and her young boy were now sharing a meal. Hovering there, hamstrung by a feeling of unpronounceable rage, the grandfather swept the feathered headdress off the child’s head with the back of his hand, then muttered something indecipherable before he headed out the door in an angry blur. The mother put an arm around the child, who soon began to cry out. Quentin, still at the table, watched it all in shock, pausing in his mastication of a curly fry, setting it back down on the plastic tray before him, then started to his feet, still stunned, eyes open wide.

* * *

After they found their way to New Circle Road in Lexington, both the younger and older brother ignored the question of assault, of who or what may now be following them, and decided they had to find somewhere to eat. They pulled into the drive-through of the local Burger King, ordered a few Whoppers, and sat in the pickup’s cab, the engine still running. A song by Shania Twain was playing. At the end of the song, the older brother, uncomfortable in the passenger seat, lowered his head and began to moan a deep-bellied howl, the sound of which caused Gilby’s hair to stand on end.

“What is it? What is it?” Gilby asked, glancing out the window at the rearview mirror, sure they had just been pinched.