Drive (14 page)

After an hour, I gave up thinking about it. What was taking Daniel? Chantel couldn't still be on her break. I drove around Easton, past the music store and McDonald's, anywhere he might be. I thought about going back to the hospital to ask for Chantel, then realized I didn't know her last name or even what department she worked in. I parked at the convenience store again.

He's probably just pissed off at you, I told myself. He's sixteen years old and Easton isn't New York. Yet I could feel my stomach knotting. Don't lose him, Mom had said.

I hung on for another forty-five minutes. Then I drove up and down every street, more carefully this time, checking all the shadows and alleys. When I slowly circled the school playgrounds, mothers sat up on their benches, alert. But I was worried, too.

Where the hell could he be? Why would he do this? Even if you're mad at someone you don't…scare them.

I parked at the hospital. It was a long shot
but I was desperate. I didn't know what I'd do if he wasn't there.

I was hurrying up to the front door when I saw the familiar shape of denim and dark hair in the distance, across the big asphalt drive and a park. He was leaving Easton's one apartment building. I almost sagged with relief.

“Daniel!” I called.

He kept walking. I broke into a run after him.

“Daniel!”

I was close enough but still he wouldn't turn around. Barreling over the field, running like I hadn't in a long time, I wanted to scream it in his ear.

I caught him by the shoulders, a frustrated tackle that sent us both crashing onto somebody's lawn. I came down on him harder than I meant to, felt the sickening crunch, but I couldn't stop the momentum. Before I could move to get up, his elbow came back at me.

Sharp pain between my ribs sucked my breath away and I couldn't get it back. Daniel shoved me off, then lunged after me, straddled me, pounding with the sides of his clenched fists. It was all I could do to get my arms up over my face.

Blow after solid blow made my head spin. He was stronger than I ever expected, and I still
couldn't breathe. The feeling came up from the pit of my stomach, a gust of adrenaline or raw fear – I thought I was going to suffocate.

I threw him off in a wild thrust, sent him tumbling onto the sidewalk. I managed to roll over onto my hands and knees, crouched like a sick animal. I drew in shallow, creaking breaths, staring hard at the grass to blot out the pain.

“Are you trying to kill me?!” Daniel cried.

I couldn't speak yet. Breathe, Jens.

Daniel sat back on his haunches, shaken. “I mean, you jump me from behind…scare the shit out of me, I don't know what…” He seemed to notice my condition for the first time and leaned closer. “Jens, are you okay? Say something.”

“Are…you…deaf?!” I gasped.

I straightened at last, the world still blurred around the edges. When I moved to stand, he held out his arm but I ignored it. I could get up on my own. We started down the street, back the way I'd come. I wasn't moving fast.

“Where the hell have you been?” I said.

He nodded toward the apartment block. “At Chantel's. She gave me a key. She asked if I would change the strings on her guitar and tune it.”

“For two hours?! Didn't you think of me sitting there? Didn't you think I'd be worried?”

He looked away. I saw a red scrape on his
cheekbone, where he'd rubbed the pavement.

“Why? You didn't think of me sitting there,” he said finally. “All I wanted was twenty minutes, just her and me. But you have to follow me like I'm an idiot you can't let out of your sight, Daniel, the retard…”

“Oh, come on —”

“Then you shove your way in with some stupid line,” he continued, a quiver in his voice. “Stand there grinning. You can get anybody but you wouldn't let me have twenty minutes!”

He didn't understand. “Daniel…how old is she?”

“I don't know and I don't care.”

“Well, you should care —”

He turned on me, his eyes like dark liquid. “You know what, Jens? Most people bore me. And I bore them. Oh, yeah, I'm the guy with the guitar. That's good for about two minutes. I sit in school feeling like a goddamn… fencepost. All the crap they're shoveling at me, I understand it just fine, but I can't care about it. I think, if I have to live in this, I'm going to die.”

I thought of him calling Kruse four times a day. Jack Lahanni would say Daniel had drive, too.

“Jim Renders' house. Is that where you go?” I said.

He looked shocked that I knew. But the
Renders had two working parents and five rowdy sons. Kids had been going there to drink for a decade.

We were walking again. “So you need a boost to get through the afternoon, too?”

“Not every afternoon…”

“You're breaking Mom's heart,” I said.

“Well, what about my heart?” Daniel shot back. Then his voice dropped. “Chantel is the most exciting person I know. She's interesting. And we care about the same things. Sure, we have different styles, but it's the same
stuff.
And I think she likes me,” he finished softly.

Or does she like what you give her? I didn't say it. I was thinking of the way he'd lunged at me, pounded on me, even after he knew who it was.

We had reached the truck. The sun was still high in the sky but I knew it was late afternoon. A wasted day.

“You know, we'd better find a place to camp,” I started.

“Chantel said we could stay overnight at her place.”

“She lives alone?” I asked cautiously.

“Yeah. She said we could sleep on the floor. Just bring our sleeping bags up.”

The idea tugged me in different directions. I didn't trust this woman who'd hold hands with
a sixteen-year-old in public, who sang like she was pressed up against you, moaning into your ear. I didn't know what I might say to her before the night was out.

But to sleep inside, even on the floor. To have a shower…I was feeling dirtier by the minute.

“We'll see,” I said. We drove over to the apartment and I followed Daniel up to the third floor. He pulled out the key almost proudly, but the door swung open before he could get it in the lock. She was already home.

“Men,” she said cheerfully. “I can hear you tromping around a mile away.”

She had changed out of her uniform. Tight black jeans and tank top, cut so low I imagined I could see the pink edge of her tattoo every time she moved. Her hair was undone and it fell just past her shoulders, rippled from the braid, white-blonde strands tangled in with gold and brown. She was smoking a cigarette.

“And you work in a hospital,” I said as I walked in.

“Yeah, but I didn't take an oath. Hey, what happened?” she said, reaching to touch Daniel's cheek.

He drew back, a little embarrassed. “We were just —”

“Wrestling,” I said.

She looked me up and down. “Oh, and I bet
that
was fair.”

I let go a short breath. I'd probably have a bruise the size of a baseball between my ribs – the spot still throbbed. It might have been a lucky shot but Daniel had nailed me worse than I'd hurt him.

He was already on the couch, hoisting Chantel's acoustic over his knee. “What'd you think? Did you take it for a spin?” He struck a few chords, as pleased as if he'd built the thing.

Chantel laughed. “Well, I don't come home from work and run to the guitar…”

“Why not?”

She laughed again and dropped onto the couch beside him. “Hey, I was wondering if you'd show me something. I think I'm doing this wrong…”

She took the guitar from him and strummed through a section of a song – his or one of hers, I couldn't tell. To be honest, it was a shock, the halting gaps as she fumbled over the frets, the sudden jangle of an off note. When Daniel played, the sound seemed to flow out of him, like breathing. His big-knuckled hands and knobby fingers looked awkward holding a pencil or a hammer, but they flew over those strings like he owned them.

Chantel finished and looked up at him, biting
her lip. He was smiling at her.

“Okay” my brother said patiently. “That's pretty good. Let's start with the bar chords…”

They might as well have been speaking French. I drifted around the living room, touching things.

It was as small as my own had been, or smaller, but bright with strangeness: a quirky orange lawn chair; a cat clock with moving eyes. There was a fully inflated punching clown – Boffo – and big aluminum wind chimes hanging from the ceiling. There were no family pictures, but one of a band she must have been in.

It was a promotional photo. Chantel up front in black leather and bright pink lipstick, four snarky rock and roll clones behind her – skinny, sullen guys you'd mow down like grass on a football field. I stood looking at those pink lips and the ring that glinted through her eyebrow, gold against gold. I wondered how many of the band had made her see stars.

Behind me, the lesson was over and rehearsal had started, sort of. Daniel had a firm grip on the guitar again and he was playing whatever she wanted. Chantel's smoky voice seemed to take over the small room but it was obvious they'd never played together. There were lots of screw-ups and stumbles that made them laugh like kids.

My hands were clasped behind my back. Today was Sunday and tomorrow was Monday, and I had sixty-one tapes to sell.

“What time does this curling thing get going?” I broke in. “Maybe you should practice, Daniel. Or get cleaned up.”

There was a half-second of silence.

“You want something to do, Jens?” Chantel said. “Make supper, if you can.”

“I can cook,” I said. “I'm a great cook. Fantastic. What do you want? I can make anything.”

Chantel had nothing defrosted. “Get creative,” she shrugged. “Look around. That's the mark of a master anyway.”

“Okay, I will.” I tossed my jacket and pushed up my sleeves. All the dirty dishes on the counter I just cleared into the sink, not minding the noise. She'd see. They weren't the only artists in the place,

I'd started cooking at home when Dad was in the hospital. So many nights Mom stayed with him late, and I'd make supper for Daniel and me. Once we got tired of grilled cheese sandwiches, I started to experiment. I could get completely absorbed chopping and frying, looking for new things to throw into the pan. It surprised
me that it was fun. It surprised everyone else that I was good at it. When Dad came home and Mom went to work, I still cooked a couple of nights a week. I liked the feeling that I was helping.

I rummaged in Chantel's fridge for eggs – jackpot. You can do a hundred things with eggs. Finding the green pepper, mushrooms and cheese was pure bonus; it made the decision for me. Any chimp can scramble or fry, but a good omelet, that's a test of skill.

I found a non-stick skillet in the cupboard and twirled it once by the handle before I set it on the element. Daniel and Chantel were back at it, bursts of music and chatter, but it didn't bother me now. I had a mission.

The secret to my omelets is that I fry the ingredients separately and don't overcook the eggs. And I don't just pour the batter into the pan and hope for the best. Every now and then I scrape up through the center with the flipper, lifting the pan at a forty-five degree angle so what's liquid runs into the gap, spreading the egg thinner, cooking it more evenly. I caught Chantel watching me while I held the pan in the air.

My other secret is Tabasco sauce – just a few squirts – in the egg mixture. You don't ask whether anybody wants it, you just do it.

The first two omelets were good but the third was perfect. Magazine quality, with extra cheese melted over the top, for effect. I made sure she got that one. There was no table so we ate in the living room, plates on our knees, sharing toast from one platter. I'd run out of clean dishes.

Chantel was impressed, especially when she tasted it.

“I don't believe it,” she said. “An eighteen-year-old who can cook.”

“Nineteen,” I said. “I'm almost nineteen.”

She didn't seem to hear, but looked from Daniel to me. “A songwriter and a chef. If you were one man I'd marry you.”

It was getting late. The bonspiel started at eight so I thought we should be set up by seven. I was getting nervous and a little revved, in spite of myself. I hated the whole busking thing but maybe there was an opportunity here that I just didn't know about.

I sent Daniel in for a shower first. “And hurry up. I want one, too,” I said.

Chantel was leaning back on the couch, smoking a cigarette, her nipples outlined under her T-shirt. I put myself in the kitchen and started to clean up.

“Daniel never told me what you did at the hospital,” I said, scrubbing out the skillet. “Nursing?”

“Blood lab. I'm a technician.”

“You must have been a biology major. Which university?”

“U of M.”

“Medical is pretty tough,” I called over the running water. “Was it a long program? Three, four years…?”

“Twenty-two.” Her voice was suddenly close. I turned to see her leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.

“What?”

“I'm twenty-two,” she said. “That's what you're trying to find out, isn't it?”

I turned off the tap.

“My brother is sixteen,” I said.

“I know. I sent him a card. Did you?”

I hadn't, and she knew it. She seemed to know a lot about me, the new car and truck guy. I didn't like it.

“What do you want from him? What are you after?” I asked bluntly.

She took a drag of her cigarette, pink lips around the white filter. “I don't think I owe you an explanation,” she said.

“No, but you might owe my mom.”

I'd hit a nerve. She turned away and wandered back into the living room, arms folded over her chest. I followed, grabbing a dish towel for my wet hands.