Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift (17 page)

Kyle flops onto his back, covers his head with a pillow, and lets out a muffled scream.

He doesn’t talk to me the rest of the night. He watches his shows, and when I try to talk to him, he pretends not to hear me. I do not like the silent treatment. My father used to do this to me, especially after I became a teenager and he and I did not get along very well. I don’t think it is mature. However, it would be a stretch to say Kyle is being rude about it. He is just sending me a very clear,
silent message. I wish now that I had put a codicil in our agreement that would reward him for being sociable.

At 10:00 p.m., I tell him that it’s lights-out, that we have another long day of driving ahead of us. He doesn’t answer me, but he does turn down his bed and climb in. I shut off the light.

I lie on my back and stare into the darkness. Tomorrow, we will drive 517 miles to Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, a route that will take us most of the way across Wyoming, down into Colorado near Denver, and then, finally, on smaller roads into southeastern Colorado and to our destination.

I close my eyes and my brain provides a picture of how I remember Cheyenne Wells from 1978, the last time I was there. Not much comes to mind—grain elevators, a railway line, and a big, wide-open sky that always seemed to hold huge clouds. Southeastern Colorado, in my recollection, has a lot in common with the eastern part of Montana, where I am from. Neither place has the big mountains that outsiders seem to associate with the states they’re in. It occurs to me that it has been so long since I saw Cheyenne Wells, this will be like visiting it for the first time. Even as detail-oriented as I am, I know that memories are imprecise renderings of places and times. I am eager to see it again and to reconcile what I see with what I remember. I hope sleep comes soon. Strangely, I hope my father visits my dreams again. I realize that I find comfort in that.

“Edward?”

Kyle’s voice is soft. I’m surprised to hear it.

“Yes?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yes.”

I hear rustling in the bed next to mine as he shifts his weight under the covers.

“I just want to say thanks for letting me come with you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I listen as he flops over in bed, and soon I can hear that he’s asleep.

Maybe Kyle is still a sweet young man. I hope so. He’s sending conflicting signals—that much is certain. If he were on
Jersey Shore
, they would probably call him “The Enigma.” (I love the word “enigma.”)

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 2011

From the logbook of Edward Stanton:

Time I woke up today: 7:38 a.m. A very familiar time for me. The 209th time this year I’ve been awake at this time.

High temperature for Tuesday, December 13, 2011, Day 347: 32 (according to the Rock Springs newspaper). Nine degrees warmer than the high the day before.

Low temperature for Tuesday, December 13, 2011: 20. Same as the low the day before.

Precipitation for Tuesday, December 13, 2011: a trace amount.

Precipitation for 2011: 19.40 inches

New entries:

Exercise for Tuesday, December 13, 2011: Kyle refused to walk with me, so I didn’t do it. I’ve decided that we will walk at lunch, even if it costs us time on our 517-mile trip to Cheyenne Wells.

Miles driven Tuesday, December 13, 2011: 490.8

Total miles driven: 1,203.8

Gas usage Tuesday, December 13, 2011: Filled up in Boise: 9.747 gallons at $3.0199 per gallon, for a total of $29.43. Filled up in Brigham City, Utah: 13.209 gallons at $3.2399, for a total of $42.80. I am giving up on trying to project my gas usage and costs; the variables in price and consumption are too great. I will, of course, continue to write down the actual amounts as I accumulate them.

What Kyle owes me for the music he purchased: $215. He called his mother this morning and told her he loves her, and I credited $10 to his account. After he handed the phone back to me, Donna said, “What did you do to him?” She meant that I had done well, I think. That made me feel good.

Addendum: I am excited today. It will take many hours, but I will see Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, and that makes me happy. However, my happiness is kept in check by my reminding myself that it’s highly unlikely that I will arrive in Cheyenne Wells and the townspeople will congregate (I love the word “congregate”) around me and say, “Edward, we are so glad you came. We’ve been waiting for you.” Life doesn’t work that way. Yes, my father has been showing up in Cheyenne Wells in my dreams—although he did not last night, as far as I remember—and, yes, I have begun to wonder whether that means he wants me to find something there, but I have to remind myself that I am someone who trusts facts above all, and this idea that my father is guiding me toward something is not a fact. It is a fantasy. I have to remember that so I am not disappointed.

I am glad Kyle is with me on this trip. I wasn’t sure I would be, but aside from a couple of small problems, it’s been good to be with him. I hope that continues.

After I stop the car for the second time on the 107-mile stretch between Rock Springs and Rawlins, Wyoming, so I can pee, Kyle asks me this question:

“Why do you pee so much?”

I think it is reasonable for him to ask, given the frequency of my urination. So I tell him. “I take drugs that cause me to pee. It’s
so my body doesn’t retain water. It’s part of my treatment for my type two diabetes.”

“That’s weird.”

“It’s called a diuretic.”

“How many times do you pee a day?”

This is an astounding question, and I instantly feel foolish for not having an answer. I really should be tracking this on my data sheets.

“A lot,” I say. “In the first four hours after I take my pill, it’s especially frequent. Also—I hope this doesn’t gross you out—but it’s much more pee than it has ever been before. I can’t prove this empirically, because I never bothered to measure my pee before I started taking this pill. That would have been gross. But I can tell.”

It now seems to me that we’ve gone about as far as we can with this subject, but Kyle keeps going.

“I bet I can pee more than you,” he says.

I laugh. This is ha-ha funny. “No, you can’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Kyle,” I say, “you’re being silly. I’m older than you, I’m bigger than you, and I’m sure I have a bigger bladder than you do. There is just no way you can pee more than I can, unless you have a bad medical condition, in which case we should get you to a doctor.”

“If I pee more than you, will you erase what I owe you?”

This question flummoxes me. On one hand, I don’t want Kyle erasing his debt by any means other than being nice to his mother and being sociable with me. On the other hand, this idea that he could pee more than I can is anatomically laughable. I counter with my own question. “This is purely hypothetical, because there is no way you can pee more than I can, but if you do, will you still call your mother and still take walks with me?”

“I guess.”

“I want a yes, or it is no deal.”

“Yes, OK, I will.”

I take my right hand off the steering wheel and offer it across the seat to Kyle, who shakes it.

We’re strange.

Kyle and I agree that we will store our pee in empty water bottles for comparison’s sake, and he drinks the contents of two to make room. He wants to drink three bottles of water, but I tell him that he can’t because I don’t want him to get water poisoning, and he laughs at me as if I’m making something up.

“Water isn’t poison.”

“Well, no, it isn’t technically,” I say. “But if you drink too much water, it can kill you.”

“No, it can’t.”

“Yes, Kyle, it can.”

I wish he wouldn’t do this to me. I don’t make things up; it’s against my nature as a fact-loving person. I proceed to tell him about a story I read in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
, long before I worked there. It seems that a radio station in Sacramento, California, held a contest called “Hold Your Wee for a Wii,” in which it challenged a woman to drink as much water as she could to win a video game console. She didn’t win the game. She died.

“You’re lucky,” I tell Kyle. “You got your Wii from Santa Claus.” I don’t like telling Kyle a piece of fiction like this, but I also don’t think it’s my place to tell him the truth about Santa Claus if he doesn’t already know it. That’s up to Donna and Victor.

He already knows it.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “Santa Claus is my grandpa. You’re stupid if you believe in Santa Claus.”

“Now you did it,” I say. “You are back up to owing me two twenty-five.”

“Wait a minute!”

“You called me stupid.”

“No, I said you’re stupid
if
you believe in Santa Claus. Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not stupid.”

I don’t say anything for a few seconds. I don’t like being outsmarted.

“You owe me two fifteen,” I say.

Kyle slaps the leather seat happily.

We’re driving past Rawlins on the interstate now, and I do something I’m not supposed to do and look away from the road and at Kyle, just for a second.

“What?” he says.

“When did you find out that Santa Claus isn’t real?”

“Two years ago. I found where Mom hid all the presents.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. She likes Christmas and stuff. Anyway, I think she knows that I know.”

“How?”

“She’s not making a big deal out of it this year.”

“Do you know what you’re getting?”

He laughs, only it’s not a ha-ha-funny laugh. “Probably nothing, the way things are going.”

“They’ll get you something.”

“I guess.”

“Do you know what I want for Christmas, Kyle?”

“No.”

I feel my cheeks getting hot, which is strange. And then I realize that I’m embarrassed to say what I’ve been thinking. But I do it anyway.

“This trip with you.”

He doesn’t say anything. I make sure my eyes stay fixated on the road. I’m afraid that I’ve embarrassed him or made him uncomfortable, so I don’t want to make it worse by looking at him.

“Edward?”

“Yes?”

“When did you find out about Santa Claus?”

I’m glad he asked me this question. I remember it exactly. It was December 24, 1975. I was six years old. I tell him this, and then I tell him why.

“I remember Christmases by the best gift I got each year. For example, in 1975, I got a five-speed bicycle, and the year before, I got a G.I. Joe, and the year after I got Connect Four. So that’s how I remember what year it was. But the way I figured out there was no Santa Claus was I heard my father say ‘cocksucker’ late that night while he was trying to put my five-speed bicycle together in the living room after I had been sent to bed. I don’t think Santa Claus would say a word like ‘cocksucker,’ and even if he would, he wouldn’t sound like my father.”

Kyle laughs and laughs at this story, and I laugh, too, because it is funny. As I think about it now, I realize that my father and Scott Shamwell, the pressman at the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
, are a lot alike in that both like to curse in loud and creative ways. Maybe that’s why I like Scott Shamwell so much—because he reminds me of my father in the best ways and doesn’t remind me of him at all in any of
the bad ways. It’s a good theory. Theories are fine, but I prefer facts. The facts are that I like Scott Shamwell and I miss my father.

Kyle taps me on the shoulder, and I look over at him.

“That’s two more bucks to my account,” he says.

“Why?”

“You just said—” Again he stops himself. He’s better at this than I am. “You said
c
-sucker twice.”

Well, shitballs, I think (but don’t say). I guess we’re down to $213.