Root, Page 3

  “Ohhhh, right! Hey James. What’s up? Hey man, it really sucks about your dad. How are you doin’?”

  “I’m … getting over it. Hey, listen. Jenny … she came to the funeral, and I need to call her, but … I don’t have her number … and I don’t even know her whole name. Would you—?”

  “Gallagher,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Her last name. It’s Gallagher.”

  “Oh. Thanks a bunch!”

  “Haven’t seen you at the park lately. Where’ve you been?”

  “I don’t know. Busy, I guess.”

  “Hey man, I know we can be kind of … uh … brutal sometimes. But we’re just screwing around. You realize that, right?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll come by sometimes.”

  I hung up, feeling a bit startled and flattered by his concern. I could never have guessed they might feel bad about how they acted around me.

  I found Jenny Gallagher listed under the sophomores in Adam’s directory. From her address, I could tell that she lived in a trailer park north of town, way too far to walk. She probably lived in one of those double wide mobile homes that were so common along the canals near the airport.

  There was no way I could call her discretely from home. Even if I took the wireless into the bathroom, we had too many extensions and I had too many nosy cousins infesting the place. So I slipped out the back door and started walking to the bus station.

  I wasn’t even positive they had working pay phones. If they did, it was probably one of the last places in Ft. Pierce that did. But I had a pocket full of quarters and they jingled with every step. As I skipped along, my feet barely touched the ground.

  Close to three miles I walked, right to the edge of downtown. I reached the Greyhound terminal just after dark. As I approached, I saw a bank of pay phones around the corner from the rest rooms. I went inside, my palms tingling.

  The first phone I tried was out of order. My quarters fell into the slot and slid straight through into the coin return. The receiver smelled like a wino’s dying breath. It probably hadn’t been disinfected in years. The second phone smelled no better, but at least it kept my quarters.

  My coins conjured a glorious tone and I punched Jenny’s number. Some older guy answered—Jenny’s dad, I presumed.

  “Hi, is uh … Jenny home?”

  “Who is this?” He broke into an ugly fit of coughing, full of phlegm. He had to be a smoker, and maybe a drinker.

  “Um. I’m James. A friend.”

  “A friend, huh? Well, Jenny ain’t here.” He slurred his words. Definitely, a drinker.

  “Do you know when she might be back?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Okay. I guess uh … can you tell her I called?”

  “What was your name again? Jimmy?”

  “James.”

  And that was that. He hung up.

  I stood there a minute, watching some people line up to board a bus bound for Jacksonville. I felt punctured; the invisible force that had buoyed and propelled me on my walk over had frittered away. I considered hanging around another hour and calling back, but had lost the will.

  Maybe if I went home, her dad would pass the message and she would call me. Cousins or not, I was beyond any potential embarrassment, I just wanted to hear her voice. I realized I hadn’t given her dad my home number, but she knew my name. It had been on placards at the church, and on the copies of my dad’s obituary that had been left on every pew.

  I started walking home, every step landing like my soles were made of lead. If nothing else, I still had the weekend to look forward to. That would be enough to keep the roots at bay.

  Chapter 4: Beaches

  By the end of the week, mom had recovered some of her equilibrium, to Uncle Ed’s great relief. At least she had stopped locking herself in the bathroom, and when the neighbors came by with a casserole, she actually went to the door and chatted with them.

  She resumed her chores, picking up the living areas, scrubbing the bathrooms, though they really didn’t need much attention. Aunt Helen had been a dervish about keeping our place tidy.

  Based on the CVS pharmacy bags that had shown up in the kitchen trash, I had a feeling that some of her rally might have been chemically induced. Not that I objected. Sometimes that’s what it took to keep on keeping on.

  On Friday morning, I went into the garage to round up some beach things. Its windows caught the full brunt of the morning sun so it was like an oven in there.

  Seeing dad’s pickup jarred me. I realized I wouldn’t be around to wash it tomorrow.

  It had been years since we had gone to the shore as a family. When I was little, we used to go every weekend. Some of the best beaches in the county were only twenty minutes away from our house.

  There was a stack of plastic Tupperware bins beside the work bench, one of which contained about every toy I had ever brought to a beach. I can’t believe mom hung onto all my kiddie stuff. But it was all there, along with some ancient picnic gear.

  I pulled out an old Frisbee in its original packaging that I had gotten as a birthday gift a few years back. It had never been thrown because I never had anyone to throw it to.

  Going to the beach had sure been a lot simpler in those bucket and shovel days. No tricky social dynamics to worry about, just me and my parents and a sandbox that went on forever; the ocean my mischievous playmate, always sneaking up and knocking down my castles.

  I unearthed another bin stuffed with neatly folded towels, but had trouble finding one that wouldn’t embarrass me. Most had these flowery prints or cutesy cartoon characters. I finally dug one out from the bottom with an ugly geometric pattern that was the least likely to draw ridicule.

  Mom came out to see what I was up to. She hung back and watched me while I refolded all the towels I had crammed back into the bin. She snatched up a tube of sun block and handed it to me.

  “Oh, and you should bring that little cooler. There’s some Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew in the pantry. Get it chilled down in the fridge and you can toss in some ice in the morning.”

  She touched her finger to her chin. “I wonder if I should make some sandwiches. How many people are going to be at this party?”

  “I don’t know mom, I didn’t—”

  “I’ll need to go to the store and get some bread and cold cuts.”

  “No mom. It’s okay. I don’t really need to bring anything. You can buy stuff there.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Mom. It’s okay. I got this.”

  She smiled and went back to the house.

  I sat down in one of those low beach chairs and listened to my heart thrum, the blood humming through my veins. I didn’t ever remember feeling so alive.

  ***

  I had nothing to do the rest of the day but fret. I played some Mario Kart on Jay and Josh’s PlayStation. I washed dishes, just to keep occupied. I even started a batch of laundry. Mom just looked at me and shook her head.

  When Uncle Ed took us to Dairy Queen for lunch, I spotted a pay phone at the Seven/Eleven next door. I thought about sneaking over to call Jenny again, but she was probably in class. Maybe I could suck up the courage to call her from home, after school got out.

  Someone my age should never have been having these kinds of communications problems. It was pathetic. This was 2012 for Christ’s sake. Normal kids messaged each other with cell phones and Facebook and Twitter without thinking twice.

  Thanks to my Luddite, penny-pinching parents, I was stuck in sixties mode. We had no internet at home, just a land line and basic cable. We lived practically off the grid. If I only knew she was watching, I would have sent Jenny smoke signals, just to let her know I was still alive.

  Back home, I played basketball with Ed and the twins. I was a pretty good post player but had a horrible outside shot. Uncle Ed made up for my offensive deficiencies, so we smoked the twins. Didn’t hurt that they were a good foot and a half shorter than us.


  That game was good for my head. That little bit of physical activity helped take my mind off things. I had a shower, played more Mario Kart and then Mom cooked up a bunch of ribs and chicken on the grill. By that point, I was again counting down the hours before beach day. I had half a mind to camp out at the library overnight.

  We settled into the family room after dinner and watched a DVD with the twins. I didn’t even notice what movie was playing. I retreated into my head, ignoring anything anyone said. A bowl of popcorn appeared in my hands and I didn’t even see who gave it to me.

  I was fixated on what I would say and do tomorrow, to the point of scripting possible conversations in my head. No doubt, I was over-thinking things.

  Uncle Ed and his gang were flying back to Cleveland the next day, but that had no bearing on my plans. After the movie, when everyone settled in early for bed, I said my goodbyes. I expected to be long gone before any of them got up.

  I snuggled up on the couch with the TV on low and watched the lights in the bedrooms go off one by one. I tried going to bed early myself, but I was too hyped up. I just stared at the shadows on the ceiling, my eyes wired open.

  I tried emptying my mind, avoiding any thoughts of Jenny and the beach. But no matter what I did, those thoughts came drifting back.

  Midnight rolled up and I was still wide awake. I knew I’d be a wreck if I didn’t get at least a couple hours in before morning so I went to the medicine cabinet and took one of mom’s Ambien.

  I sat up a little bit longer, watched the late, late shows. When they were done, I was still sitting there, listening to distant whine of trucks on the interstate. I went to dad’s liquor cabinet and choked down a swig of whiskey, just a little. I didn’t want to overdo it.

  That did the trick.

  ***

  The next morning, I awoke with the sun on my face. The twins were on their floor with their backs to me, Mario Kart theme music tinkling away on the TV. Against all that, my alarm clock chimed away on the end table.

  The digital display read eight twenty-nine.

  I hollered like I had been stabbed. The twins crashed their cars and cringed away from me. Mom came running into the room in her rumpled pajamas, hair sticking every which way. “What happened?”

  “I was supposed to meet up with them to go to the beach … at eight!”

  Her sleepy eyes cleared in an instant.

  “Think they’re still waiting?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why didn’t they call? Or swing by to get you?”

  “I don’t know, mom. I don’t know.”

  “Get in the car. I’ll take you. Ed and his gang aren’t leaving for the airport till ten-thirty.”

  I flew off the couch and ran up to my room to change into swim trunks and a clean shooter shirt. Mom already had her car running in the driveway. I tossed the cooler and towel and stuff in the back and clambered I beside her.

  “What beach?” he said.

  I just blinked at her. I tried to remember if Jenny had even told me, staring out at the blank white wall of the hallway. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “I bet it’s Surfside Park,” she said, her chin set firm, eyes narrowed. She squealed out of the drive.

  ***

  Surfside, the most popular and likely spot for Ft. Pierce high schoolers to hang had already had accumulated had a good-sized crowd of beach goers by the time we got there.

  “Should I wait?” said mom. “While you have a look around?”

  “Nah. That’s okay. I’m sure they’re here.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “It’s okay mom. I’m cool.”

  “Should I come back … say four-ish … to get you?”

  “No need,” I said. “I’ll catch a ride back with Jenny.”

  She smiled, a bit weakly. “Well, good luck sweetie.” She turned the car around.

  I crossed the lot and cut through the dunes. Surfside has a good half mile of public beach stuck flanked by private lots. The bright sand was packed with towels and chairs and umbrellas.

  I wished I had some binoculars. I spotted what looked like groups of teenagers across the way, but couldn’t tell who they were from a distance.

  I wanted to find them in a manner that didn’t make me look so desperate. So I trudged through the fluffy sand to the southern edge of the park and went down to the water. I strolled along the tide line, glancing up discreetly at every cluster of young people I passed.

  I pictured myself strolling up to Jenny and her friends nonchalantly when I finally located them. Straight-faced. Mr. Cool. Jenny would rush over to greet me, all surprised.

  The tide was in. The surf was choppy. Must be a storm offshore. I splashed along, towel tucked under my arm, swinging the cooler, discreetly studying every cluster of young people I passed. Twenty minutes later, I had reached the northern limits of the park.

  They weren’t here. I had screwed up again.

  Not a deal killer though. There were more beaches in the area, both north and south. North made more sense, because it was closer to the bridge leading into downtown Ft. Pierce. So I went back to the road and hiked past a stretch of fancy houses until I came to another strip of public beach.

  The sun was fierce, but there was a nice breeze coming off the water. I veered across another lot and squinted across the dunes at the sparser crowd of people occupying this nameless strand. No dice, but no need to panic. It was still early. I took a Mountain Dew out of the cooler and chugged it down.

  I continued north along a sidewalk to the next stretch of public beach. I wish I had worn something sturdier than flip flops. I slipped them off and went barefoot when they got too annoying.

  Eventually I reached the inlet that cut through the barrier island to Ft. Pierce’s harbor. The beach here angled around a point tipped by a stone jetty. The sand here looked like snow, but proved just as devoid of any familiar faces. I found a patch of shade among a row of palms and slumped down.

  My head throbbed. My stomach began to clench. It was time to reassess this while beach thing. For all I knew, Jenny and her crew had gone south to Jupiter Island or north to Avalon State Park. Do you know how many miles of beach there are on the Florida’s Atlantic shore?

  Avalon. Come to think of it. Burke had mentioned Avalon once or twice. But did Burke even go with them?

  Avalon lay across the inlet. I stared at the channel, and at the beach on the other side of it. I wondered how hard it would be to swim across. It looked pretty narrow. To walk I would have to go two miles west over a bridge into the city, one mile up to the next bridge and two miles back to this place I could almost hit a golf ball across.

  What I really wanted to do was to go home and curl up in my bed. I sat there under those palms, the image of Jenny at the funeral burning in my retinas. I glanced at my watch. It was not even noon yet. I still had time to find her.

  I stood and gazed across the inlet and at a knot of young people horsing around on the beach across the way. I could hear traces of their voices carry across the water. There was a grill smoking beside a picnic table. Was that Jenny’s group?

  I burst from the palms, abandoning the cooler and towel, sprinting across the sand, kicking off my flip flops. I splashed in next to a ‘no swimming’ sign, the water cool and bracing, not nearly the bathtub warmth it would achieve later in the season.

  The sandy bottom gave way quickly to stone and deepened. I angled in against the slight current, alternating between an overhand crawl and a breaststroke, stopping to tread water when I got tired. When I kicked into the deepest part of the channel, the full brunt of the current hit me like a flash flood.

  The tide was coming out. I didn’t try to fight it. With rip currents I knew you were supposed to just swim across the flow. There would come a point when the current released you and you could swim back to shore. The problem was, the shore was getting farther away. The tide hauled me out past the jetties.

  An acid burn built in my musc
les. My exertions were unsustainable. I had screwed up yet again. I panicked for a bit, but then this little valve opened up and all the fear drained out of me.

  Fuck it. If the ocean wanted me so badly, let it take me. I quit swimming and drifted on my back, sinking lower in the water as my paddling and treading. Strands of seaweed or something wrapped around my thigh and tugged at my wrist.

  The sound of a screaming engine snapped me out of my stupor. A speed boat came roaring at me. My fear returned. I was not looking forward to getting run over and chewed up by a pair of propellers.

  I considered diving, but if I went under, I would probably never resurface. The boat veered away at the last second and curled around. Two guys in ball caps and sunglasses yelled something at me. They puttered closer and one of them tossed me a life ring attached to a line. I grabbed it. They he pulled me in.

  “Jesus. You almost gave me a heart attack,” said the guy at the wheel. “I thought you were some manatee.”

  “This is a boat channel, you idiot,” said the other guy. “We almost sliced you into chum.”

  I choked out my words, struggling to catch my breath. “Got caught … in the current.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “North side of the channel. Inlet State Park.”

  They got the boat pointed back towards the harbor and powered in to the boat ramp. I went over the side and waded in the rest of the way.

  “Thanks!” I said, waving, but they had already gunned their engines and continued on their way.

  I stood there, kind of dazed, searching the beach for that group of kids I thought I had seen. I found them pretty quick, but they were not who I thought they were. But I wasn’t even sure if this was the same bunch I had seen from across the inlet.

  I meandered down the beach, weaving through the blankets, my soggy clothes plastered to my skin. Turning the corner around the point, I found more beach, but no Jenny. Again, I had come up empty.

  While I was standing there, I caught some Hispanic girl in a black one-piece staring at me. She was really cute, with well-toned limbs and coppery skin, but I was so obsessed with finding Jenny, her looks barely registered.