The Key to the Golden Firebird (13 page)

It was her
duty
to take it out.

She grabbed the key, then lunged in the direction of the garage door.

The long fluorescent lights blinked on in segments and sizzled a bit before lighting completely. There it was—all dull, heavy gold, a beast from a different time. There was the black vinyl top. The headlights that reminded her of frog eyes. The huge backseat where she and May used to sit and have kicking wars.

As she approached the car, she had the weird sensation of breaking through an invisible barrier, like an electrical dog fence. The shock was internal, very deep. It repulsed her and charged her at the same time. The Golden Firebird had been waiting here for a long time, wanting to take her wherever she wanted to go. It had been sleeping.

Brooks crossed around to the driver's side. The door was unlocked. She opened it slowly but waited a moment before getting in. This was
the place.
The actual spot where he had passed from living to dead…

She couldn't think about it that way. Besides, years of athletics had hardwired one fact into Brooks's brain: On the field, you don't hesitate. You decide, and then you do. So she had decided, and now she had to act. If she stood there and thought about it all night, nothing would ever happen.

She dropped down into the driver's seat. It was very far back. (Her dad had been six-foot five, after all.) She reached around the side of the seat and found the crank that moved it forward. The inside of the car seemed a bit strange to her now, after an absence of a year. It was a world of cream-colored vinyl. It had ashtrays and a bench seat. Nothing aerodynamic or sleek about the inside of this monster. The radio was ancient, ridiculous. Nothing digital. Huge knobs for the lights. Cold bits of metal. There were some things of her father's on the floor—his gym bag, a plastic container that must have held his lunch, a newspaper. She used her foot to push them a little farther under the shadow of the dashboard.

Brooks looked at the key in her hand and the outstretched wings of the embossed Firebird on the key chain. Her father had always told her it was good luck to touch the key chain, so before games she would always “pet the birdie.”

She stroked it once and put the key into the ignition.

Nothing.

She tried again. Still nothing.

Luckily her father had at least taught her something about
the car. She got out and reached under the front bumper for the hood release, then popped it to have a look. The problem was, fortunately, one she'd been taught how to identify—corrosion on the battery terminals.

When she looked up, Palmer was standing in the doorway. She didn't speak.

“What?” Brooks spat. “I'm fixing the car.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Brooks said, as if the point were self-evident, “it's got stuff on the battery.”

“Why are you fixing it now?”

“Go watch TV.”

Palmer didn't move.

“Or just stand there,” Brooks said. “I don't care.”

Palmer stood there. Brooks retrieved a can of cola from the supply shelf. She cracked it open and poured the contents over the terminals.

“Why are you pouring soda into the car?” Palmer asked. Her round face was pulled into a very dark scowl. Her hair was pulled up in a lopsided ponytail. She cocked her head, as if it were weighed down by the imbalance.

“I told you already,” Brooks said, leaning down and keeping her eyes on the battery. “Go take a shower or something.”

“I took a shower….”

Brooks grinned as the corrosion bubbled away. She closed the hood and jumped back into the driver's seat. After waiting a moment she tried the engine again. This time there was a growling, grumbling noise. The engine seemed to be in the process of deciding whether or not it was going to fully engage.
Brooks felt it rumbling under her, alternating between a steady purr and a dying cough. Suddenly there was a familiar if alarming smell, and a steel gray cloud of fumes came seeping up from the back. Life rippled through the Firebird, and the engine became loud and steady.

“Okay,” she said, wincing, “I'm never drinking that again….”

“What are you doing?” Palmer shouted over the engine.

“Nothing. Go back inside.”

“You're drunk.”

“I'm fine,” Brooks shouted. “Go inside!”

After snapping on her lap belt, she took hold of the thin steering wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror, and slowly began backing the Firebird out of the garage. The wheel turned stiffly, and the sheer length of the car's back end was intimidating. You could
feel
this car.

Palmer stood in the open doorway of the garage, watching her go.

When Brooks started down the road, the acceleration pushed her against her seat. The Firebird seemed to despise low speeds, and it became easier to drive whenever she went a little faster. No wonder her dad had felt so manly driving this thing.

She reached for the radio dial and switched it on. The signal was weak, just long silences broken by deafening crackle. Single words boomed out of newscasts. Jolting snatches of songs. Frustrated, she gave the knob a hard spin and got a weird range of feedback. She held the car steady on the road with one hand as she worked the tuner furiously with the other. Scratches of noise—blips. A little more pressure from one finger…carefully. It required absolute precision, like safecracking. Minute turns now. Microscopic.

A horribly loud
whooping
sound filled the air. Brooks jumped back and let go of the dial. Punishing static noise blasted through the car. She slapped at the knob to turn the thing off. As she did so, she caught a swirling vibration of light out of the corner of her eye and jerked her head up and looked into the rearview mirror. There was a police car just a few feet behind her, and it was the one making the unpleasant sound.

 

Pete drove on the way back from the city. As if trying to exact some revenge for what he'd been put through on the ride through the city, he spent the entire return trip talking like Yoda. He seemed to enjoy watching May flinch with every “Annoyed you look” and “Irritating you, am I?” After the first fifteen minutes she got the impression that he wasn't even doing it consciously anymore—that he had just gotten stuck and couldn't stop himself.

“Hear me can you?” Pete asked as he turned off 95.

May flicked him on the shoulder with her finger. Pete switched on the radio and adjusted a nickel that he had taped to the face of the dial.

“Works this does. Ask me why do not.”

May concentrated on the music until they pulled up in front of the house and he spoke in a normal voice.

“That's weird,” he said.

“What is? Talking like a human?”

“Palmer's out front.”

Sure enough, Palmer was sitting on the low, flat step in front of the screen door. May felt her nerves tingling. There was
something very not right about this. Palmer got up and walked over to meet the two of them.

“Brooks,” she said.

“What about her?”

“She took the car.”

“What?” May shook her head, not understanding. “Mom took the car.”

“No,” Palmer said, pointing to the empty garage. “The Firebird.”

May got out of Pete's car and walked to the garage as if to prove to herself that the Firebird was really gone. She stood in the space that it had occupied for the last year. The void was weird, almost mesmerizing. The garage was suddenly huge.

“Where did she go?” May asked.

“She said she was just going to get some Gatorade.”

“She took the Firebird for Gatorade?”

“She poured soda into the engine, too,” Palmer added, pointing to the case of generic cola on the shelf behind May.

“Probably for the battery,” Pete said, coming up behind them and looking around for himself.

Both Palmer and May turned and stared at him as if he had suddenly started speaking in Portuguese.

“Coke can loosen things up,” he explained. “Get rid of buildup on the battery nodes.”

“How long has she been gone?” May asked.

“About two hours.”

“Two hours?”

“She was drunk,” Palmer said. “I'm pretty sure.”

May exhaled heavily and paced the room. She plucked a
canister of WD-40 from one of the shelves and shook it violently, listening to the little metallic rattle.

“I can go look for her,” Pete offered. “Drive around.”

“There's no point,” May said. “Two hours. She could be anywhere.”

She continued to walk around the room, seemingly looking for something that would explain it all—where Brooks was, why she had committed this insane act of treachery. Something that could put the Firebird back just as it was, just as it had been for the last year. But nothing was there but half-used containers of car cleaners, a few tools, some rags in a bucket, some shelves of old junk. Palmer lingered by Pete's side, keeping about a foot away but moving whenever he moved, as if he were a magnet pulling her around. She looked at him searchingly, but since he had no explanation either, he could only shrug.

“Okay,” May finally said, “I'll give her another half hour. Then I guess we can drive around and look. She's probably over at Dave or Jamie's or something….”

A car approached the house. It pulled in behind Pete's Cutlass, under the heavy shadow of the Starks' oak tree. May could see that there was writing on the door and sirens on the roof. A large man in a dark uniform got out of the front seat.

“No,” May said, almost to herself. “There's no way….”

Palmer shot off in the direction of the car. May and Pete followed, almost cautiously. With every step the scene came into clearer focus, and May's fears were confirmed. The car was a police cruiser, and Brooks was being unloaded from the backseat. She had no handcuffs on. Her makeup was smeared.

A husky officer was standing by the door, watching May and Pete approach and basically ignoring Palmer.

“Are you her brother?” he asked Pete.

“No.” Pete shook his head. “I'm—”

“I'm her sister,” May offered, pulling herself up straight. “What's going on?”

“Your mother is on her way,” he said. “Is your father home?”

“No. He's…no. Not home.”

“She's been processed,” the officer went on. “Will you both be here until your mom gets home?”

By both he seemed to be indicating May and Pete.

“Yes.” May nodded. “I will….”

The officer looked to Pete.

“Sure,” Pete said. “I'll be here.”

“All right. Here are your forms.” The officer passed Brooks a number of pink and white papers. “Call that number on Monday morning.”

Brooks took the papers silently.

“Where's the car?” May managed to ask. “Our car?”

“It's at the police lot,” the officer explained. “One of your parents can get it out tomorrow. I circled the address on that yellow sheet there.”

“Right,” May said.

“Wait here,” he said to Brooks. He walked back around and got in his car, leaving the door hanging open. He spent a few minutes talking into his radio. All four of them stood silently, listening to the muffled codes and chatter from inside the car. Brooks stared at the ground. Then the officer climbed out and leaned over the roof.

“We're good,” he said. “You'll stay here, Brooks, with your sister and—”

The “and” was Pete. Palmer was still invisible.

“Okay,” Brooks said.

“Remember what I told you.”

“I remember.”

“Okay.”

Without another word, he got back in his car and pulled away.

“What was that?” May asked, even though she felt like she probably already understood.

“I'm going in,” Brooks said.

“It's a DUI.” May sighed. “Isn't it?”

“I'm going in,” Brooks repeated, heading toward the house. Palmer trailed along behind her.

When they were gone, May looked around and saw curtains being drawn back discreetly in the house across the street. The Stark boys were standing in their screen door, unabashedly staring. Once again, she realized, the Golds were the neighborhood show. She walked over to Pete's car and slid down the side to the ground, leaning against the tire, where she couldn't be seen. Pete came over and stood with her, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his long army green shorts.

“It had to be a DUI,” May said. “She gets that look when she's drunk. Kind of glassy.”

“Is she drunk a lot?”

“A couple of nights a week.”

“What do you mean by a couple of nights a week?”

“Two, three. Maybe more.”

“Does she have some kind of problem?”

May stared at Pete as if she didn't understand the question. Asking her if Brooks had a problem was kind of like asking her if rain was wet.

“Does your mom know?”

“I don't think so,” May said. “Brooks leaves after she goes to work.”

“Did you ever tell her?”

“My mom's got enough problems,” May said, picking up a twig and snapping it into several small pieces. “What am I supposed to do? She hates working nights as it is. Do I tell her that Brooks gets wasted all the time and that Palmer stays up all night watching TV? Great. She can feel even worse.”

“She's going to know now.”

“This is just what Brooks is like,” May said, her exasperation growing. “Everybody knows it. You know it. My mom knows it, but she doesn't want to deal with it. Besides, no one yells at Brooks. Probably not even this time.”

May listened to the cicadas chirp for a moment and stared at the yawning space in the garage, the spot where the car had been.

“I must sound pathetic,” she said.

“What?”

“It's just that this is it. This is my life. I go to school, and I go to work. Someone has to be the good one, you know? I'm the good one. Which pretty much means I'm the boring one. No boyfriend. No life. Nothing.”