Fat School Confidential (33 page)

   
I headed towards my car, to find Wendy standing by. Clenching my teeth and slowing my steps, I approached her. She was crying.

   
"I’m going home,” she mumbled. Her arms hanging limp, she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—lift her head to make eye contact with me.

   
I was completely bowled over, as if the wind had been taken out of me. I didn’t know what to say or do. All I could utter was, “I understand.” All I could do was hug her. But it wasn’t anything like our pre and post-holiday hugs. I was the one doing all the hugging. Wendy just stood there. Trembling. Transfixed by her own grief.

   
She walked away, towards Bill and Cindy.

   
I was left standing there. Alone.

   
Served me right.

Chapter 18

Aftermath

   
I fucked up.

   
I fucked up.

   
I fucked up.

   
I fucked up.

   
Those words reverberated in my mind, over and over again. Sitting still in my Honda, I had an overwhelming urge to throw up. The disgust I felt inside was too much. I had no desire to leave the parking lot. After all, where the hell was I going to go?

   
After committing the most blatant act of career suicide I’d ever known, I was faced with an outcome I should have expected.

   
I didn’t.

   
It was either keep driving to L.A., with the prospect of living with Mom, or turning back.

   
Would Ellie even take me back?

   
My cell rang. It was Phyllis, from KMPH. I let it ring through. Staring blankly at the phone, I waited another few minutes before checking the message.

    “
Hi, Joe. We were wondering if you’d like to do a follow-up interview with us? Just give me a call when you can. Thanks.”

   
Follow-up? Follow-up to what? To the biggest story Central California had ever known, only to become the biggest non-story?

   
I didn’t bother to call Phyllis back. Not yet. I was too upset at myself. I knew I’d say the wrong thing and further bury me. There was no point in remaining here, at the substation—or in Pixley, for that matter. Wendy was long gone to wherever the fuck she was bound for, and I didn’t need to have deputies gawking at me. At least, not in the state I was in.

   
Instead, I decided to drive. Not north or south, but away.

   
Pulling out of the parking lot, I drove onto the main road heading east. The town’s buildings—the few that made up downtown Pixley—faded quickly into the past, only to make way for fields and fences, trucks and tractors. I was making my way towards the brown haze that was the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I didn’t think for a moment I was going to go all the way, but I needed to be somewhere neutral, somewhere to attract as little attention as possible. Finding a woodsy enough turnoff, I pulled over to the side of the road. I turned off the engine. Clasping my hands as if in prayer, I placed them over my mouth. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I began to cry.

   
I hated crying. I hated the vulnerability that crying brought out in me—in anyone, for that matter. But it was more than that. I hated feeling sorry for myself. But I couldn’t help it. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do after this. And what could I do? How did people go and get jobs and patch things up with their families after embarrassing themselves on TV? Celebrities seemed to do it, and they never broke a sweat. But they had money and power, two things I never had.

   
Correction: I had power. Not a lot. Not the kind of power afforded celebrities and politicians, but the kind a sad sack teacher given a little too much rope to hang himself with.

   
I wept for but a few minutes. I didn’t give a fuck who might have seen me as they passed by in their cars to wherever they were going. What did they know? What did they care?

   
And when the crying was done, I didn’t feel any better.

   
Other than Phyllis, no one else had tried to contact me for hours, not since Sheriff Henderson’s ultimatum. Wendy was probably being reeducated before heading home. At least, I assumed she was heading home. How or why would Bill keep her after the stunt she pulled?

   
Wendy wasn’t going to call me. She, too, must have felt embarrassed or humiliated or weird about the whole thing. Suited me. I didn’t want her to call me. I needed to put as much distance—geographic and otherwise—between her and me.

   
The one person I wanted to talk to wasn’t about to call me, and that was Ellie. I broke her trust. I broke our vows—and in front of half a million viewers. I wanted to say how sorry I was, but I didn’t know where to begin.

   
It was close to six P.M. I wanted nothing more than to go home, to Ellie. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to hold Bobby.

   
God, how I missed them.

   
The twenty-seven hours since I’d seen them last seemed like days. Weeks. My body ached, as though I had aged years. I sure felt older. But, was I wiser? And, more importantly, at what price?

   
I drove back—back towards Pixley. I hung a right and hopped onto the northbound Ninety-Nine. Turning on the radio, I checked the AM stations to see if there were any news. Maybe it was the voyeur in me, but I had to know what was being said.

   
Nothing.

   
Maybe it was for the best that my fifteen minutes of fame—as unintentional as it was—had passed.

   
I shut the radio off. There was nothing else I wanted to listen to.

   
Music was dead to me.

   
My eyes started to droop. I was tired—and hungry. In Tulare, I took the main exit and made a beeline towards the closest drive-thru—Carl’s Jr. I ordered the chicken sandwich combo. With a Diet Coke. In the vast, near-vacant lot, I sat in the car and ate my meal.

   
With the sun dipping over the horizon, I found myself staring at the changing colors in the sky. Oranges and reds, followed by the sweetest purple I’d ever seen. Maybe it was the methane in the atmosphere that did the trick, or maybe I was so damned tired and depressed my eyes were deceiving me. Either way, the sight was awesome to behold.

   
Again, I thought of L.A. I thought of the aborted attempt of arriving at my hometown with Wendy, and showing her the sights. East and West Hollywood. Downtown. Santa Monica. Venice. Malibu. And the places only a native like me—and a wide-eyed newbie like her—would be interested in. But it wasn’t to be. Like the sunset before me, the idea of us together in any sense of the word was fading, and fading fast.

   
And again, I found myself in the dark.

   
The cell phone rang. It was Ellie. I picked it up.

    “
Where are you?” she asked. She still sounded plaintive as before, but there was also a faint whiff of anger.

    “
Not too far. Are you okay?”

    “
Is… she with you?”

    “
No. It’s over.”

    “
Over?” Ellie asked, a little hiccup in her voice. She must have been in tears all day.

    “
Yes,” I replied. I took a deep breath before adding, “Nothing happened between us.” I realized I said the same thing early that morning when I lied about Wendy staying in a motel, but I hoped repeating it would make my message clear. Before I could think of how she’d respond, she said, “Bobby misses you.”

   
Whether she believed me or trusted me was second to wanting me home. Things wouldn’t be the same between us, but at least I’d be back with her and little Bobby.

   
Sweet little Bobby.

   
Driving home was a blur. I was beyond exhausted and anxious at the same time. I was depressed as hell, too. My thoughts grew dark. I alternated between thinking of Bobby and ending my life.

   
Driving myself into the center divider seemed all of a sudden an attractive option.

   
I had no job, no career.

   
My reputation, such as it was, was a fucking joke.

   
I was a fucking joke.

   
How could I have done what I did and think I deserved a second chance at anything?

   
If I increased the speed just so, and made sure to unfasten my seat belt in the process, maybe death would be instant.

   
Part of me wanted to die. I couldn’t deny that. I was so ashamed of myself. The kind of shame that prevented me from looking at anyone square in the face again. It was the kind of shame that beckoned me to end it all.

   
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to myself. Much more importantly: I couldn’t leave Bobby fatherless. If, for nothing else, I focused on that prospect to keep me alive. Whether Ellie had desired widowhood over divorce, or worse—living with me, I couldn’t tell.

   
I arrived in Kingsburg just after eight-thirty. I pulled in front of our apartment, turned off the engine, and sat still—just long enough to collect my thoughts. Pulling down my visor, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I looked awful. But did I look remorseful? I felt remorseful. Would Ellie see that?

   
Carrying my messenger bag, I made it to the front door. Ellie must have sensed my presence—she opened the door before I could get out my key. Her look was at once full of hurt, disappointment and anger. Reading my own expression, she turned away. I only hoped my insides matched my outsides.

   
Not a word was exchanged between us. Walking inside, I found the apartment lit solely by night lights. I checked in on Bobby. In his onesie pajamas with rockets and comets, he was asleep in his bed in his room. I gave his cheek the softest of kisses, so as not to awaken him. He stirred—no doubt aware Papa was home. His eyes blinked open just long enough to catch sight of me, then closed again. He curled on his side. I caressed his arm and shoulder, pulling up his blanket.

    
Heading back to the living room, I found Ellie lying on the couch, a single blanket covering her. She was on her side, facing the back cushions. She wasn’t asleep, but she wasn’t about to strike up a conversation with me.

   
She looked so small in the darkness. And beaten. I kneeled down on the carpeted floor beside her. I wanted to hold her, to touch her, to console her in the only way I knew how, but I also knew that was probably not the best approach. Hell, after what I put her through, I was lucky to be in the same room with her.

    “
I’m sorry… I don’t know what else to say.”

   
Not a peep from Ellie. She was giving me every indication she wanted to be left alone.

   
I took a deep breath.

    “
You should take the bed,” I said. Without missing a beat—or even a glance, she got up, leaving the blanket on the couch. Closing the door to the bedroom, she said all she needed to say. I sat on the couch. I didn’t bother to go to her. I knew better. In times past, whenever she gave me the cold shoulder, and I responded with pleading or begging, nothing worked to anyone’s benefit. But this was different. This was unfamiliar territory. I did something horrible, and words alone would never fix what I did. I let her sleep. Maybe in the morning she’d be okay to talk, I reasoned. But I wasn’t going to be in any shape to talk myself if I spent the night obsessing. Taking off my shoes and pulling the blanket over me, I went to sleep on that couch.

   
If only sleep would give me peace.

   
I envisioned driving through the city in my Honda. And of the tunnel on Third Street. Collapsing—with me in it.

   
Buried alive.

   
It was just before sun up on Saturday, when I woke up. Facing me in the dark, Ellie was standing there, right by the couch. Sensing her presence, I opened my eyes.

    “
Good morning,” I said.

“
We need to talk before he wakes up,” Ellie replied. Given the somber tone of her voice, she meant business. I sat up on the couch. Ellie remained standing.

    “
Okay.”

    “
Do you have any idea what are we going to do for money?” she asked.

    “
Bill said they were FedEx-ing my final paycheck. Should get it this morning.”

   
I was telling the truth. In one of the many messages left for me early Friday, Bill mentioned overnighting my last pay. I figured, the faster he—and by extension, A.O.S.—could wash his hands of the whole thing, the better. I didn’t think about bringing this matter up, until, well, now.