Driver's Ed (17 page)

He thought about his sister. Mac had expected that little word
reward
to bring Mr. Thompson the information he needed to find Remy.

But nothing had happened.

Remy might slip by. Mom and Dad had little awareness of news. Their own lives seemed to fulfill them enough that they could skip both city and world. Eventually the wrecked car would be towed to a junkyard, people would forget, spring would come, and Remy'd be safe.

She might be safe anyway. Remy did not have the strength to have cut that metal post. Nickie and Morgan therefore had actually committed the crime. She was an accessory. Or maybe just a bystander.

He felt as if he had been lying on the bed all these years for good reason: he knew how to think. Thinking was a valuable skill and people didn't do enough of it.

His sister knocked on the door and came in. They never used to go in each other's rooms. He used to hear
rumors about families where the brothers and sisters were friends, but Mac had certainly never given them credence.

Now that she was the bad guy, he liked her. Being rotten and worthless used to be his job. It was nice to pass the torch.

Remy sat on the edge of his bed.

Mac flexed his advice molecules.

“I told Mr. Fielding,” said Remy. “He was blaming other people. I think he was getting ready to go to the police. I'll drive to Morgan's, let him know what's happened now, and then come home and tell Mom and Dad.”

Mac's brilliant mind emptied. He had no advice. He had no ideas. He could think of nothing helpful. “I'll stay when you tell,” he said finally. “Maybe it won't be so bad.”

His sister shook her head. “It will be so bad, Mac. It'll be worse.”

“What about Nickie?”

She was frightened by that. “What about Nickie?” she said carefully.

“He was there. He's the one who actually chose the sign.”

“No,” said Remy. “It was just Morgan and me.”

“
What?
Why are you lying about
that
?” Mac was incredulous. “Remy, trust me on this one. Let them take the blame. You're just an accessory. You just sat in the car and waited.”

“Shut up,” said Remy. Her eyes were very bright and slightly crazed. “You are about to have a great privilege. You are my first passenger. I am your legal licensed driver.”

*  *  *

M
organ had posed in the middle of Farmington Avenue, legs spread, thumb up, jacket unbuttoned, wallet full.

Two people in her car! He couldn't believe it. Remy'd brought her brother along? Their first drive together, her first solo flight, this girl he was crazy about, and Mac was here?

Okay, he told himself, we're dropping Mac off somewhere. I can live with that.

He wanted to kiss Remy. Feather-light. The way he had in school. Promise of things to come. In front of Mac he'd rather kiss roadkill.

Morgan ran around to the driver's side and tapped on the window till the new driver rolled it down. “Let me see it,” Morgan demanded.

She handed over her license.

“Hot off the laminator,” he said, grinning, stroking it. “You look great. It's a good photograph, Remy.” He stuck his head through the window and kissed her upside down. It was easy to kiss her even with Mac there. She was so pretty. He tumbled around with love, wanting everything perfect for them, wanting the sun always to shine and—

“Look at this!” shouted Morgan. “Rembrandt Marland! I don't believe it! You used your real name!”

“You have to. They make you. You have to bring two forms of ID with your birth date. I had my birth certificate and my baptismal certificate. They both say Rembrandt Valerie Marland.”

Morgan laughed. “How'd
Valerie
get in there? I mean, with a first name like Rembrandt, you expect a middle name like Renoir or Monet. Why'd she call you Rembrandt, anyway?”

Remy's laughter turned to tears. “Because she
wanted me to be great,” Remy said. “She wanted a daughter who was different and great.”

Morgan thought she was. And also beautiful and—

“I told Mr. Fielding, Morgan. And now I'm going home to tell my parents what their great and different daughter is really like.”

Morgan rarely went into his father's study. Dad would invariably set down his pen, turn away from his computer, drop his newspaper. His father would want to talk, and since Morgan had not talked in years, entering the study had become impossible.

He did not want talk this time either. Or sit.

He didn't want to be in the tall oak chairs with their plump cushions and face that desk with its litter of notes, clippings, files, plans, calendars, and schedules. What would he get from somebody he'd shut out for so long?

Dad doesn't own a gun, so he can't actually shoot the person who took the stop sign. But he might kick me out. Where would I go?

He'd had running-away fantasies. What kid didn't? Vanishing onto a bus or a train; hitchhiking to adventure; living on vending-machine potato chips and smoking the discarded cigarette butts of other travelers.

He didn't want that. He wanted the exact outline of life his parents had drawn up for him: perfection and success. Well, I'm off to a great start, he thought.

His gut hurt, knotting as if he'd gone swimming too far out in water too cold.

He wanted his father to be good and moral and upright, to be just. The kind of person people ache to vote for.

But almost as much, he wanted his father to paint over it; hide what happened to Denise Thompson from Morgan himself as well as from the world.

The collar of Dad's button-down oxford shirt made a little white line above a heavy navy pullover. The knot of his tie hung to the side where he had loosened it. Dad looked up from his work, startled by the sight of Morgan, and instantly looked back down, memorizing where he was, so the interruption wouldn't ruin his work.

Doesn't matter where you are, Dad, I'm about to ruin your work. And your life. But, hey. You have a teenage son, that's the risk you run.

Morgan could not even take a deep breath. His lungs disobeyed him. “Dad?” Even the one syllable snapped in the middle.

His father did not, as in the past, jump up. In that awful silent moment Morgan felt from his father what his father had always felt from him. No interest.

He held himself terribly still. He would not break down; it would be cheating.

You wanted danger, he said to himself, you got it, you worthless whimpering cipher. Denise Thompson didn't want danger. She wanted to live. You took that from her. Admit it, you coward.

“Dad,” he said again, and his voice broke.

His father looked shocked, and was out from behind his desk, crossing the room swiftly, wrapping his arms
around Morgan. Probably thought Morgan had lost his girlfriend or didn't make the team. The strength under the heavy wool sweater was amazing, as if Dad were the one who did the weight lifting. As if those arms could hold Morgan up out of trouble in which they were both going to drown.

“What is it?” said his father, already in gear to be sympathetic and understanding.

Dad had the right to assume a son of his would never do something that wrong. Other people's kids, but not his. It would mark Mom and Dad as failed parents; people whose children went bad.

“Dad,” he said at last, because the only thing worse than telling his father was not telling, “I'm the one who took the stop sign.”

R
emy had said the words. They were out.

It was her parents who said nothing. They stared at Remy as if she were packaged in a foreign language. Then at each other, their lives no longer comprehensible.

Henry, sensing that good stuff was happening and he wasn't part of it, screamed like police cars going to a hijacking to be let out of his playpen. Mac hoisted him up, setting Henry's fat padded rear on the kitchen counter next to him. Henry immediately wanted the sugar bowl, the paper towels, and the tip of ivy hanging from the planter. You would think in times of crisis that a one-year-old could give it a rest.

“I thought I was a good mother.” Mom's voice was as thin and sharp as a razor.

“You are!” cried Remy. “It isn't your fault.”

“Good parents don't have children who do things like that.”

“It was only a sign,” said Mac quickly. “She couldn't know anybody would die. And she didn't actually take it. She was waiting in the car.”

“She's sixteen,” said Dad. “Why did she think a stop sign was put there? She must at least have suspected that there was a purpose to the sign.”

“Oh, God.
God!
” shouted their mother, as if He would come if they raised their voices enough.

“God wasn't there,” said Remy.

“What do you mean, he wasn't there?”

“He let Denise Thompson die!” cried Remy.

“Excuse me?” said her mother. The anger in her was ratcheting up. “God did not let Mrs. Thompson die. God doesn't have wrenches and hacksaws. He doesn't supervise dangerous intersections. That's your job. God is a spirit. He brings strength of mind and character.”

“He didn't bring me strength of character!”

“He would have if you'd asked.”

Remy tried to imagine herself, as they hefted the tools in their hands, looking toward the stars and calling for character. What if I had asked? Would Denise Thompson be alive?

But she had never thought of asking. She had been full of her crush on Morgan, and had thought only of Morgan asking; asking her out.

Her mother was possessed by fury that consumed her body, she was red hot from rage. Her mother advanced on her. Remy felt that her mother had grown claws and a beak, wanted to rip her flesh like a vulture.

“You and Morgan caused Mrs. Thompson to die! Admit it! Admit that you are responsible!”

Her mother's eyes were glittering. Remy backed up into the wall while Henry screamed the screams she wanted to scream. “I do admit it, Mommy,” said Remy,
sobbing. “That's what I'm doing now. I'm admitting it. I've done a terrible thing.”

Her loud, swear-happy father wept. She had never seen him cry. He left the screaming to Mom, as if he himself had broken. “Yes, you have, honey,” he said. “If it had been the act of a moment, I could understand it better. I could understand suddenly deciding this would be fun. But this was so planned. It was a strategy, with assignments. You brought tools, you planned cover-ups.”

“Remy didn't,” said Mac. “Remy was—”

“Excuse me,” said their mother. “Remy agreed to go on a sign-stealing expedition. Remy knew she wasn't going over to Lark's to watch movies. It was not a date. A date is something happy and good. They were vandalizing little—”

They all knew the words Mom wanted to use, and were all stunned and sick that such words could apply to Remy.

Mac was her only ally. Remy thought of Mac like God: solid and present and a total surprise. But Mac, like God, solved nothing. He was there, and that was supposed to be enough.

It's not enough, thought Remy. I want to be rescued. I want that night back.

She saw right down her mother's soul, like a doctor looking down a throat, and she saw her mother knowing more than she did. There were no rescues and there was no going back. A woman was dead.

Mom went rigid the way the baby did, arms taut at her side, jaw sprung, teeth clenched. “
How could you do this to me!
I have been a good mother! I have done the right things with you! I have done my best!”

Remy held her hands flat in front of her face, as if she thought her mother would rain blows upon her.

Mac, desperate and furious at everybody, chose to yell at Henry, who was least able to control himself. The family was rioting; they had turned into a mob.

“I know, Mommy,” said Remy. “You did do your best. It's me, Mommy. I didn't do my best. I'm sorry.”

T
here was a time of stillness.

A space in which both their hearts raced double time.

Morgan's father drew back from him, to stare into his face. The muscles of his father's jaw and shoulders grew tight and froze into position. Dad's eyes opened a little too wide and stayed there, seeing things he refused to see.

I won't fall apart, Morgan ordered himself. I won't be a little boy. I'm sixteen.

“
The stop sign?
” breathed his father, pulling farther back. “
Where Denise Thompson was killed? You took that?
”

All the weight lifting in the world did not give Morgan control over his own muscles. He began coming apart, as if tendons no longer connected muscle to bone. It was not the sign that mattered. The sign was nothing. Only Denise Thompson mattered, and she was gone. “Oh, Dad, I killed her!”

The air came out of his father slowly, like a tire going down.

“Dad,” said Morgan, unable to swallow, his throat swelling, his fingers thickening.

Slowly, heavily, his father sat down on the wooden visitor chair, and pulled Morgan, all six feet two of him,
all hundred and sixty pounds of him, onto his lap. His father's rough cheek pressed against his. He said nothing. Just held his son.

Morgan tried to explain how it had happened.

“Sshhhhhh,” said his father.

“I don't want to keep it a secret anymore, Dad. I have to tell.”

His father said “Sshhhhhh” again.

“Dad, I can't hide out. I don't want you to hide me. I've tried that, and—it doesn't go away.”

“We're not hiding,” said his father painfully. “It's just not time for talk yet. Just let me hang on for a while. I've got to let my mind catch up to this.” His father brushed possessive hands through Morgan's hair, as if Morgan were a baby. Innocent, and deserving.

After a long time Dad said, “I think you weigh more than I do.”