Undisclosed (2 page)

Travis was nearly seventeen, and for as long as he could remember his dad and Davis had known each other. He would see them at the house most Tuesday evenings, drinking beer over a game of cards, and then there was the yearly Super Bowl event. Travis wasn’t much for sports; the idea of throwing a ball around just seemed redundant, and getting all worked up over it, now that was just plain insane. No, motocross was his thing. The thrill and excitement of pushing the limits of what you could do couldn’t be compared to anything else. Add to that his newfound love for freestyle motocross, and there you had it—his ideal way to kill time.

For a moment he wondered, again, why it was that his father and Frank managed to get along so well; maybe because they had attended the same school and both worked such long hours. Perhaps it was the police department’s involvement with security at the Lab. He inwardly groaned. What made him think that any of that history would help him out of this mess?

* * * * *

The clock showed ten past seven before his father eventually showed up. Travis had spent the better part of the day sleeping and trying to come up with plausible excuses. Knowing full well that none of them would be accepted.

“Travis, your ride’s here, you’re free to go,” Davis said, unlocking and holding the cell door open.

His stomach sank. He knew the feeling all too well—that meant his father had shown up. If anyone was going to get an earful, it was a given Travis would be first in line. Now if it was Will, and he was in this position, it would have been a different story.

Davis led him through another door, holding it open. Near the entrance, pacing back and forth, was his father. His lips were tight, eyes narrowed, and Travis could see this was the last thing his dad wanted to be dealing with. Scott Marshall was the sort of man who always looked as if he was stumped by some complex math equation; he didn’t resemble what most would imagine a molecular biologist would look like. The first time Travis’s best friend met his father, he had joked how he had pictured him with white wiry flyaway hair, round spectacles and a Swedish accent. His father was far from that. He looked more like a new cop; chiseled face, well-built and always looking immaculate.

“Wait here,” Officer Davis said, turning and walking over to Travis’s father. Travis could see his father glancing at him over his shoulder and nodding his head, but he couldn’t make out more than mumbling from what they were saying. Eventually, Davis motioned for Travis to join them.

Bracing himself for a split second to gather his thoughts, he strode over. This was going to be fun, he told himself. Wait for it, he thought, half expecting his father to berate him and unleash hell’s fury. And sure enough …

“What’s next? Breaking and entering?”

“No, that’s next month, but thanks for reminding me.”

“Oh, so this is one big joke to you, right?” he replied. “Travis, do you think I like getting a call at my workplace telling me my son has been arrested?” he spat. “Do you know how that looks?”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t have had them phone you, if I knew Mother could have—”

“Where is she?”

Travis knew but didn’t respond. Instead, he collected his belongings and headed out the exit; he really didn’t want to get into it. He was tired. Most of all, he was tired of arguing with his father.

* * * * *

It was unusually frigid and dark out. The mountains surrounding Los Alamos were barely visible; the moon hung low, lighting up the tree branches that acted as a canopy over the road. Travis lived in a fairly secluded area on the west side of what most simply referred to as The Hill. The Quemazon community, where his home was situated, was beautiful, nestled into a winding valley overlooking the city; it had grown a lot since they had arrived there in 2005. He’d never cared too much for the area—he preferred their last house, which was on the east side and closer to everything—but he knew it had meant a lot to his mother. He couldn’t complain, though, because it did have one upside. It was a heartbeat away from some sick trails, which made access to off-roading a breeze.

A few years back they had relocated there after his dad’s big promotion. It was a big event for the family, a step up in the world, his mother would say. His father had been called in to help with the Human Genome Project at Los Alamos National Laboratory, a project that would later turn out to bring him notoriety in his line of work. Despite all his success, he’d always been so secretive about what he did, and that had only increased in recent months.

He was rarely around and when he was, he still wasn’t. Travis often found his father gazing off into space and having to repeat himself multiple times before he took any notice. Travis notched it up to stress from Will’s passing, yet it was likely Will’s absence as well that had placed a strain on his parents’ marriage.

What Travis couldn’t figure out was how quickly it all happened. His father clearly loved his mother; heck they had been together for twenty-one years. Prior to Will’s death they were a close-knit family. His mother and father were always openly affectionate in public, even to the point that Will had to tell them to get a room.

That’s what made the whole walkout seem so out of character, so surprising; it just didn’t make sense. His dad had been acting far more preoccupied, standoffish and quick to change conversations, especially if it related to work or Will. Travis never really quite knew what it was that his father did exactly, and he rarely probed him for answers. It wasn’t unusual; a lot of kids’ parents worked at the Lab, and while it was common knowledge that it was a nuclear-weapons research facility and historically the place where the atom bomb was born, most teens believed that something more sinister went on there. Many parents were secretive about what they did, the place had always been off limits to the public, heavily guarded by security, and workers were experts at staying tight-lipped, or at least they were forced to be that way.

The atmosphere on the car journey home from the police station was filled with awkward silence and repeated attempts by Scott to pry out of Travis what had happened earlier that morning.

“You know you’re going to have to appear before the court on this one, Travis?”

By court he meant the teen court. Yes, Los Alamos was home to its own court that was run by teens; well, a portion of it was. And what better way to deter teens from a life of crime than to have a teen jury dish out the sentence. It was like school and the teens were the teachers. For first-time offenders, traffic offenses and misdemeanors it was a way to keep teens out of traditional court: that was the excuse. Like, seriously? Placing teens from this town in charge was like asking a third grader to be president for the month. Not a good idea! At their age, what did teens really know about responsibility? fairness? justice? Only last week he had seen two teens from the jury smoking pot around the back of the school.
Give me a break!
Travis scoffed to himself.

“Consider yourself lucky. Frank said you could probably get off with community service on this, but with last summer’s incident, don’t expect them to go easy on you.”

Travis feigned disinterest, yet he was taking in every word of it, processing it in his own way.
Like, please, as if writing an apology letter, taking a program or cleaning up the streets
is
really going to set
my
life on the right path,
he thought to himself, gazing out the window
.
His life had been spiraling down since Will’s death, and as long as he remained stuck in this claustrophobic town it didn’t look like that was going to change.

Travis’s lack of response only appeared to infuriate Scott more.

“How many times do we have to do this?” Scott said.

Travis finally responded, “It was different this time.”

“Dammit, Travis,” he said, “skipping school is one thing, but trespassing and trying to outrun the police—that’s insane. Are you really that dead set on blowing your future?”

“Whose future?”

“Don’t play games, Travis.”

“I wasn’t—” he began.

“I don’t want to hear another excuse.”

“You never do,” he shot back.

“What…?”

Scott suddenly swerved, bringing the car to an abrupt stop at the side of the road. He shut the vehicle off and spun around in his seat towards Travis. “Let me tell you something. We’ve already lost one of you and I will be damned if I’m going to go through this again. I might not be with your mother, but I’m not going to sit by and watch you throw everything out the window.”

“Is that all you’re worried about? Have you once stopped for one minute to ask me how I’m handling all this?” spat Travis.

“Will would have—”

“I’M NOT WILL,” Travis shouted.

There was dead air. The expression on Scott’s face froze; he sunk back into his seat. Both of them stared off into the distance.

“I never will be,” he muttered.

It felt good to say it aloud. It made him feel relieved of a heavy weight he’d been carrying. He waited to see what his dad would say.

Scott didn’t respond.

Travis rested a hand on his forehead for a few seconds then ran his hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his face.

Scott took a deep breath, started the engine and pulled away. His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead.

“So is the bike written off?” Scott probed.

Travis shook his head; his father always avoided the topic of Will.

“I won’t know the extent of it until I pick it up from the impound on Monday,” he answered, staring back out the window.

There were really only two things in the world that mattered to Travis since his brother died: his mother and the dirt bike his brother had given him, and now both were damaged, possibly beyond repair.

As they made their way along Diamond Drive, not another word passed between for the rest of the journey. They both continued to look out the windows.

Eventually they arrived, and Scott pulled into the drive way. Travis stepped out, closing the door behind him, and leaned back in to the window.

“You coming in?” asked Travis.

“No, I shouldn’t…” He trailed off. “But say hello to your mom for me.”

Travis grunted, turned and plodded up the driveway, stopping only to cast a glance over his shoulder and watch his father’s taillights disappear around a corner of the road. He wished things could be different, that they could go back to the way they were, before his dad left, before the whole incident.

* * * * *

Turning towards the house, he noticed how the house resembled a lit-up Christmas tree; he could have sworn that every light in the house had been switched on. He scooted around the back and swung open the back door. Dropping his helmet and bag on the floor, he waited, as he heard the usual sound of pattering feet scampering their way down the hallway.

Travis crouched down as he prepared for his dog, Baxter, who by now was barreling at him, overly excited, panting and with his tongue hanging out to slobber all over him.

“Hey, boy”—scooping his hands around the large brown mass of hair—“yeah … you missed me?” he said, as he rested his head against the dog, who smelled musty, as if he had been out in the garden digging in the moist soil.
Why can’t people be more like you?
he thought.
You’re definitely a lot more fun to be around.
Travis glanced up, still raking his fingers through Baxter’s hair, creating a stylish Mohawk on his head. The familiar sound of the TV faintly buzzing in the background, and the radio on, let him know his mother was home. Since his father had moved out, his mother didn’t like the sound of silence; it had become a routine of hers to switch everything on. She said it kept her from tormenting herself about what she couldn’t change. It hadn’t stopped the tears though; he would hear his mother many a night crying herself to sleep; coping was the hardest part. Travis was no stranger to it either; he had his own way of dealing with it. Rock music and riding—they were better than any amount of posttraumatic therapy. They blocked out the mind chatter and kept him sane, at least most of the time. Nights were still the hardest.

Turning the corner into the living room, Travis was greeted by the common sight of his mother curled up on the sofa, an empty glass tipped on its side and half a bottle of Smirnoff resting on the side table. If that wasn’t troubling enough, his eyes came to rest on his mother, who had passed out leaving a cigarette precariously balanced between her fingers. Travis hurried over, carefully prying it from her nimble, yellow-stained fingers so as not to wake her.

His mother mumbled, “Scott …” trailing off to almost a whisper.

“No. No, it’s me, Mom,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the couch.

She peered out from beneath her intoxicated drooping eyelids. “Travis,” she muttered, showing a brief smile as she raised her hand and cupped his face, before drifting back into slumber.

“Rest, Mom,” he said, pulling an off-white soft throw off the coach and draping it across her.

His heart sank as he looked at her. It tortured him to think that she had to dull the pain with drink. He loved his mother. She had always been there, someone that he felt closer to than he did to his father. As he grew up, she seemed to instinctively know when Travis tried to bury how he felt when he was having a rough day, and she had this subtle way of drawing it out of him and helping him see the lighter side of life. It pained him now to see her like this.

The TV flickered, white noise, creating a strobe effect that flashed against the walls of the room. He sat up and switched it off and then collected the bottle and glass, taking them out to the kitchen. The counters were littered with takeout boxes and piled-up mail. He began sorting through them and shoveling leftovers into the trash and tossing the rest into the recycle. She had her good days, and when she did they ate well, but those were far and few as of late. His father would have been livid if he knew the full extent, but Travis knew better. He had too much respect for her, and in some way he hoped that, given enough time, she would eventually rejoin the land of the living. She just needed time.