think you were kidnapped or
split on your own. Hey, do you
suppose they’ll do an Amber Alert?
God, I never thought about that.
Kidnapping? “I don’t want you
to get into trouble. Maybe you
should just take me back.”
Zero hesitation. No damn way.
I’m not sure where to go or how
we’ll get by, but one way or
another, we will be together.
APPROACHING THE FLAT FIELDS
Of Bakersfield, I can’t help but think
about home—Dad’s sorry old place.
Empty right now is my guess, with
Dad in lockup and Kortni most likely
working. Just in case, I make a test
call. No answer. “Take me home, okay?”
I don’t think that’s such a good idea.
Why do you want to go there? But as
we near the exit, he slows down.
“I want to leave a note, tell them
I haven’t been kidnapped. And I know
where Kortni stashes her mad money.”
He hesitates, considers the note.
Just say you’re okay. Maybe that
you were afraid living back there.
Good idea. Even if Walter didn’t
do anything, making them think
he might have is a good excuse
for taking off. And it just might
keep him from taking a chance
on future bad behavior. Ka-ching.
KYLE EXITS THE FREEWAY
Swings in the correct direction.
“What about your dad?” I ask.
“What are you going to tell him?”
We are bumping along the dirt
by the time he answers. He won’t
even know I’m gone for a week.
Any other week, maybe. But,
“Uh … Christmas. Remember?
Anyway, your sister would notice.”
He thinks for a while, and I see
his shoulders slump slightly.
Forgot about Christmas.
Sadie will miss me for sure.
Then he brightens. At least
I’ll get to spend it with you.
Anyway, holidays bring out
the asshole in my dad. He starts
drinking at breakfast, goes
all day until after dessert or
until he passes out. And every
drink just makes him meaner.
AS WE PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY
I think about my own dad’s drinking.
He starts early, finishes late. But
he doesn’t very often get mean.
Maybe that’s ’cause he mostly
drinks beer. But I don’t think
his mean streak is very big.
Maybe when he gets out of
jail we can figure out how to
grow closer. That would mean
coming back from … wherever
Kyle and I end up. It would also
mean forgiveness on both sides.
Forgiveness isn’t my best thing.
Easier staying pissed. But I’m
tired of being pissed all the time.
Tired of feeling hurt by stuff that
can never be fixed because it is
an indelible part of the past.
KYLE STAYS IN THE TRUCK
While I circle around back, where
I know a certain window has a broken
lock. I left my house key in Fresno
with the rest of my meager possessions.
I shimmy up the dilapidated vinyl siding,
squeeze through the smallish opening,
drop into my old bedroom. An odd pang
of homesickness presses, weight
enough to make my eyes water. Why
am I so sad? I hate this place. Hate
what it represents—the threadbare
remnants of my childhood, few enough
happy memories woven into that cloth.
A strange foreboding chills me, and
I creep into the hallway. “Is someone
here?” I call, though I know the place
is empty. Ghosts. That’s all. They smell
of old tobacco. Dribbled beer. Cheap
perfume. Detritus-caked dishes left
to molder in the kitchen sink. Trash.
I sneak into my dad’s bedroom, a thief
who has already cased the place. I know
where the spare change jar is kept beneath
the canvas liner in the clothes hamper.
Sometimes there’s more than change
in the jar, and this is one of those times.
Kortni’s tips have been good lately,
and without Dad’s bad habits to support,
she has squirreled away almost four
hundred dollars. I take a fistful, leave
the rest to help replace the clothes
I borrow. She’s a little bigger than me.
But baggy is better than nothing, and
nothing is what I have now. Two pairs
of jeans. A couple of sweatshirts.
A plaid flannel shirt. Underwear.
That’s the creepiest thing, but panties
are expensive. At least they’re clean.
I help myself to five pair, trying not to
think about what has worn them.
Finally I go to the kitchen, find paper
and a Sharpie, write a note: I am okay.
Have not been kidnapped. I had to
leave Fresno because Walter scared
me. Tell Shreeveport to keep an eye
on him. I had to borrow a few bucks
and some of your clothes. Promise
to pay you back. Love, Summer.
I GATHER UP
The fragments
of my shattered
dignity. Exit through
the front door, paper
bag filled with
pilfered necessities
heavy in my hand.
I look at the horizon,
hung low with charcoal
clouds. Storm gestating.
Kyle waits, fingers
thrumming impatiently
against the steering
wheel. Can’t say
I blame him. We
really must go. Need to
run. One chapter closed.
Another almost begun.
THREE HUN IN HAND
We chance a quick stop at Wal-Mart.
I’ve been thinking about which way
to go, Kyle says. I think we should head
up Highway 395. No one will expect us
to take that route. Not this time of year.
There are lots of places we can camp,
and I could probably find work at
Mammoth, once the ski resort opens.
But I think we’ll have to sleep in my truck,
at least until I can make enough money
to get us a place. It’s going to be cold up
there. We’ll need two good sleeping bags.
A little food. Cereal. Jerky. Nuts.
Or maybe trail mix. Water. Flashlight
and spare batteries. Toilet paper.
Toilet paper? Seriously? Logistically,
this is terrifying. I’m not exactly
a mountain man (woman?). But I go
along, hoping we don’t blow our entire
money stash. We hurry the cart
through the store. As we pass
the feminine products section, it hits
me that maybe it’s the right time
of the month to consider tampons.
But how do I buy them with Kyle?
How do I manage a period camped
out in the bitter-cold wilderness?
My resolution to make this happen
falters. But t
hen I look at Kyle,
who is totally determined to see it
through. I grab the tampons,
throw them into the cart. And,
knowing my body the way I do,
I add a small bottle of generic
ibuprofen. Last thing Kyle needs
is to hear me bitch about cramps.
I blush when he smiles at my
selections. But he only shrugs,
puts a box of condoms into the cart.
KYLE’S EXCITEMENT
Is palpable, obvious
in the way he moves.
Every security camera
here is probably focused
on him right now. He might
be buying Christmas presents.
Except who wants trail mix for
Christmas? Or, uh, condoms?
Oh, well. We’re not doing
anything wrong. Wait.
Inaccurate. Okay, I
don’t feel like
we’re doing
anything wrong.
Even if we happen
to be paying for all this
stuff with “borrowed” money.
Could someone define “wrong”?
Is it wrong to take someone else’s
money so you can eat? Wrong
to leave relative security in
favor of unknown risk
at the side of some-
one you love?
SUPPLIES STOWED
Kyle checks out the map, decides
we should go by way of Lake Isabella.
It’s only about an hour from here, and
we can find a cheap campground there.
Highway 178 follows the meandering
Kern. We’ve been this way before.
And when we pass the place we first
made love, Kyle reaches to take my hand.
I’ll never forget that day, he says.
It changed everything. You changed
everything. I thought love was bullshit.
Something made up for TV and movies.
“Me too. Or that people just repeated
those words to get them what they
wanted.” Sex. Drugs. Money. “You
always say the right thing, know that?”
If he had passed “our” spot and
said nothing, I would have seriously
questioned what I’m doing here.
Instead, I watch darkness descend,
a rain of night in the headlights,
washing away apprehension. Too
late to worry now, anyway. Might
as well soak up Kyle, enjoy the ride.
WE FIND A FIVE-DOLLAR
Per-night campground. Some are free,
Kyle informs me. But this one has toilets.
That’s worth five dollars, don’t you think?
“Definitely. And since they’re here,
I’m going to pee.” The night air makes
me shiver. I slip into Kortni’s oversize
sweatshirt, grab the flashlight to show
me the way, happy to have both. When
I get back to camp, Kyle is messing
with a campfire. Someone left a few
sticks of firewood, he says. Nice of
them. Too dark to be hunting for it now.
I sit on a big log, watching him work to
start it. Before long, a small flame slithers
up thin sticks of kindling, licking at a log.
Kyle’s face is handsome in the building
firelight. Rugged. “You remind me of
a cowboy. Or maybe a fur trapper.”
He laughs, sits next to me. Guess that
makes you the lonely schoolteacher
waiting for me to come ravage you.
He kisses me, and it is sweet, despite
the smell of his smoke-stung clothes.
Too soon, he pulls away. Hungry?
I nod, and he goes to the truck,
brings back nuts. Jerky. Water
to wash both down with. I chew
for a while. Finally I notice Kyle
hasn’t touched the skimpy feast.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Maybe later.
I’m not really hungry right now.
He goes to poke at the fire.
I close the bags carefully. Gulp
water, wishing I’d thought to buy
a toothbrush. “Are you scared?”
You kidding? Even if we get caught,
it’s worth it. Being with you like this?
Fire’s low. Come on. He has already
rolled out the sleeping bags in the back
of the truck. We climb in, and under
a meadow of stars, my cowboy ravages me.
BIRDSONG WAKES ME
Loud birdsong. A regular death metal
concert of birdsong, in fact. I keep
my eyes closed, snuggle into my bed.
Hard bed. A waterfall of light. Outside.
Sleeping bag. Cold metal beneath me.
And I am alone. I jump into a sitting
position, quieting the avian cacophony.
A flutter of wings. “Kyle? Where are you?”
An acrid drift of tobacco assaults
my nose just as I hear, Over here.
He squats to one side of the fire pit,
trying to resurrect the dead embers.
Smoking. God. Cigarettes are, like,
seven bucks a pack. He needs to
kick that habit, and quickly. I slide
from the warmth of the sleeping bag,
into frosty December morning.
Go over to give him a kiss, steeling
myself against the stench of smoke.
But another, more insidious smell
leaks from his pores, despite
the cold. “Did you do crystal?”
His eyes, onyx-pupiled and crimson-
rimmed, are all the answer I need.
A bubble of anger rises. Pops.
Deep breath. “You did, didn’t you?”
He drops his gaze to the still-dead fire.
Just a little. Maintenance, you know.
A narrow column of bubbles lifts.
Pop-pop. “No. I really don’t know.”
I’m down to a taste a couple times
a day. Keeps my head on straight.
A thick stream of bubbles. Pop. Pop.
Pop-pop. “Fine. Then I want to try it.”
His head shakes so hard, it must
rattle his brain. Don’t want you to.
The bubbles become a low fizz.
His eyes float up. He is crying
too. Because I love you too much.
Hunter
COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS
Less than two days to go.
Rick Denio being a brick
back in his native Texas,
I’m pulling a double air
shift.
Morning drive wrapped
up, midday well underway,
I am pouring a hefty shot
of vanilla International Delight
into
a strong cup of coffee
when the studio phone
rings. On the far end
of the line, an extremely
high-
sounding girl inquires
if I’d like some company.
“Leah. I told you to leave
me the hell alone.” I
gear
up to say something much
stronger when I notice
the mic is on. Just perfect.
Good thing the music’s loud.
“Go
away,” I tell her, mic muted.
How many ways are there
to say no, anyway?
I’VE TOLD HER NO
At least a dozen times
&nbs
p; in the last three weeks.
No.
I don’t want to see her,
even if I am single right now.
No.
I don’t want to smoke up
with her. Sort of trying to quit.
No.
I don’t want sex with her,
not even no-strings-attached sex.
Now
if I could just get Nikki
to hear me tell her no.
How
could I manage that? Strong-
arm her, maybe? My life is
full of
women who refuse to listen
to me! Is this how serial killers
are born? Whoa. Where did that
bullshit
come from? I’m not even close
to some crazed ax murderer.
Am I?
NO, I’M NOT
I admit anger is a regular visitor.
It reminds me of some alien
vine implanted through my belly
button. It seems to germinate
in the pit of my stomach,
grow at warp speed, shooting
out tendrils to snake through
my veins, into my brain, where
it blooms into all-out rage.
But that would never make
me pick up a weapon and use
it, especially never on a girl.
Not even one who refuses to
return my phone calls. Or my love.
SHE STILL LOVES ME
I know she does. Boy,
I never thought forgiveness
would come so hard to her.
I give the top-of-the-hour
station ID, say a few witty
words about shopping
procrastinators. Once the music
kicks back in, I call Nikki.
Who apparently isn’t home.
Whatever. Maybe it’s better
to leave her a message. She’d
probably hang up on me.
“Nik, I swear I’m not stalking
you. But please, please listen.
What I did was worse than
wrong. It was unconscionable.
I have never loved anyone
the way I love you. And I
don’t think I ever will. You
are the most important thing
in my life. Without you,
I’m empty. Please forgive
me. I swear, I’ll earn back
your trust. Can we just talk?”
I COULD GO ON
But that’s all the machine wants
to hear at one time, and if I call back,
I’ll definitely sound like a stalker.