Casually Homicidal, page 21
I meet her eyes, and her face falls. One of the bad things about Arden being able to see right through me is that she sees the anger simmering beneath. I can no longer hide that from her. She tries to communicate something to me with her face, but Norman speaks before I can read it.
“Strange place for a boy to work, eh?” Norman says, raising his wiry eyebrows. I know he probably means well, but I don’t really care.
“I was sixteen.”
“Still sounds like an odd job for a kid if you ask me. You’d find yourself in better company if you worked on a farm!” he says, glancing over to Arden. His demeanor digs nails in between my skin and muscle, paring away at my flesh.
“Well, I liked it.” The fork hasn’t drawn blood yet, but the pain is making me go blind.
Norman takes a look at me, up and down, and laughs uncomfortably through his tight, wrinkled lips. He laughs.
Something snaps in my brain. I’m not sure what’s broken and what’s not anymore. I stand, the chair crashing to the ground behind me. I hiss ‘fuck’ as I stumble over it on my way out the front door.
Arden calls after me, but I keep walking because I know I would have slammed her onto that table and strangled her right there, her warm, dishwater blonde hair whipping wildly—and then not at all.
I can’t do this anymore. Any of it.
Fucking hell, I was fine this morning. Good, actually. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense. I flip flop back and forth between okay and not. My brain is a mess, a tangle of emotions and thoughts that I can’t understand—one that I’ve never been able to understand. I hate a lot of people, but the hatred for myself? That runs all the way to my core.
Maybe those memories have finally spoiled me.
Yearning expands within me, pushing against the walls like I am Alice falling into Wonderland drinking potion. I wish I could understand. Understand why I’m like this. Understand why Arden is the person I need to kill.
I see the expanse of Idaho before me—mountains, mist, fields, road—and do one of the only things I’m good at: running.
I run up and down the long, winding road until I can’t feel the rage buzzing in my muscles anymore. Until I vomit up the food Arden made with love—just like my mother used to. Until everything from my lungs to my shins to my head burns. Until the leviathan has crawled back in his cave. Until the nothing has frozen over again.
But it’s only temporary. One wrong step and the ice will shatter, and both Arden and I will go under.
24 Arden
Monday, May 28th
—
We negotiate a deal with Norman that if we work for him all day, he’ll give us each $100, which is a lot for a guy like him. I think he understands where we are—in life, I guess, and I think he’d be the first person to know that sometimes the best thing for you is some physical activity to smack you in the ass and some good company to tell you like it is. Maybe he too has been here before—nomadic, lost, forsaken.
Hendrix isn’t keen on staying, but we need the money. I tell him to try and enjoy the moment. He does that thing where he looks slightly bewildered, but is also trying to soak up all the information he can and make sense of it at the same time. It’s weird.
After Hendrix returns from his “morning jog”, Norman sends him out to water the crops and feed the animals. Norman helps me clean up the kitchen. I think it’s because he wants to pick my brain. Standard procedure for teenage vagabond, I guess.
Norman moves slowly, but not necessarily because he’s old, but as if he’s a man who takes great care with each movement he makes, like he’ll come to the end of his life and have to answer for every one of them. He cleans off the table dish by dish, and I start washing. The radio hums something sweet in the background, crackling like a hearth.
“Your friend Hendrix, he’s pretty queer, isn’t he?” Norman says like he’s just stating the obvious.
“Oh, no he’s not— he’s not gay,” I say, playing with the bubbles in the sink.
Norman chuckles, and it sounds like his ribs are shaking along with him. “No, honey. I meant queer as in strange. Odd.” He drops a handful of silverware into the sink.
I smirk. “Yeah, he is. But that’s alright, I still like him.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, an image of his knife pierces through my memory. Shining silver at the creepy man when we ran out of gas. Glistening red as it squelched in and out of that poor deer. Everything all at once.
My stomach goes sour as it sinks like a stone. I don’t catch the next thing that Norman says because I’m trying to think my way out of the violent, bloody corner I’ve painted myself into.
Norman’s hand on my shoulder pulls my brain back into place.
“Sorry, I missed what you said,” I say. I see the best in Hendrix, I really do. It’s just buried under a lot of shit.
Norman chuckles again. I could listen to that all day. It just sounds so . . . earthy, like it’s got miles and miles of history beneath it. There’s weight behind everything Norman does, and I can feel it tugging on my heart. The same tugging that led me to drop everything and run.
“Oh, I’s just wondering about how you got your parents to convince you two to let you do this. My folks never would have let me do anything like that with my girlfriend.”
I stop scrubbing the dried eggs off the pan, my hands sinking into the warm, soapy water. Which part do I explain first? The fact that Hendrix and I aren’t an item, or that our parents never consented to any of this? “Well, things are different now, you know. Just like how queer doesn’t mean strange, parents let their kids do a lot of wild shit these days.” I pause, then add: “For a variety of reasons.”
Norman laughs, and it sends something hollow through my chest, because he just sounds so happy and entertained and grateful for us being here, despite how broken we are. “Oh, believe me, I understand. So, how long have you two been going steady?” I hear the smile in the old man’s deep and creaking voice.
Shit . “Uh, Hendrix and I aren’t really together. We’re just friends.” I pull the plug on the sink and watch as the line of bubbles sinks and then swirls out of sight.
“Well, you oughta at least be something . Experiences like the ones you two are having bond people. Don’t waste your time, Arden—”
I turn around to start wiping down the table. “I’m not wasting my time, Norman. I understand–”
“No, I don’t think you do,” Norman says, matter-of-fact. “I spent my whole life wishing my youth away. Now, I didn’t have a bad life by any means, but I sure as hell wasn’t enjoying every moment. We can get so caught up in our own pain, wishful thinking . . . ”
I don’t want to talk about this. “I’m not wishing my life away, Norman,” I say. Jeez, I wish he’d just drop it. I’m not sure what he’s trying to prove, but I can’t bring myself to snip at Norman, at least not as much as I snip at everyone else.
“Then what are you running from?”
My brain goes silent as all the blood drains out through my toes.
“There’s only two reasons I get kids here. One is that they’re chasing something that doesn’t exist, or they’re running from something. Which is it, then?” Norman’s wisdom, the mere presence of it, cuts deep. I’m not used to adults speaking to me this way. I feel that thing again—that stringing feeling—like someone’s unspooling me like thread.
My voice is small when I finally speak, clearing my throat. “A little bit of both, I think.”
Norman smiles to himself. “Sounds about right. You know, I’m not really sure how my place became this . . . haven for kids like you. Kid after kid came here, and word got around, I guess. Now this is all I do, really, other than take care of my farm.”
“We, uh, we didn’t know you did this stuff,” I say. The washrag drips from my hands onto the linoleum.
“Oh,” Norman says. He looks out the window, the bright sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains. The light carves the surface of the earth onto his face. “Maybe people like us can sense each other, and gravity pulls us together.”
I smile, and it lights up my whole being. “I like that. Sounds like something I’d say.”
Norman walks towards me, and I find myself standing up taller, but he just ends up sinking into one of the vinyl chairs. “When I was your age, as soon as I graduated high school back in ‘58, I left town to find a job in the big city. I was running from my ex-girlfriend who I still loved and my dad who did nothing but sit on his ass and drink. Except I didn’t know that’s why I left until I’d sucked my funds dry and had to come home. I thought it was ‘cause I had crazy huge dreams and wanted a good time. I wasted five years of my life that way, and got into a lot of debt. I left a lot of good people behind. I’s a prodigal son of sorts. You wanna know the people who stopped me from running off the edge of the earth?”
I swallow. His gaze holds mine, like it’s just me and this old man in his crackerbox house and outdated furnishings. The world beyond doesn’t exist.
“Who?” I ask.
“My future wife. And my best friend, Ernest.” Norman looks down, like these words are shaking the skeleton of his world. “Both of y’all are young and can have bright futures if you want to. I ain’t gonna let you and Hendrix make the same mistake I did.”
Someone has stolen my lungs and my heart beats raw in my chest. “If you want something, go and get it. If you love someone, tell them. That vulnerability—it’s so worth it. But don’t run all over yourself before you’ve had a chance to grow. Don’t let that hollowness drown you. It ain’t about where you are—it’s about who you’re with.”
The only thing that’s keeping me from crying is watching Hendrix shower the potato plants in water that sparkles in the late morning sun.
I pause, his words taking root inside me. “Thank you.” Although I feel a little called out, sometimes I think I need to be talked back to, reprimanded, and challenged. My parents never did it. As I grew older, there was a point where I wanted them to punish me for acting out. I felt like I deserved it.
He chuckles, but it’s not the same laugh. This one’s a shade darker. “No, thank you , Arden. I suppose some things never change.”
I begin to put the dishes away, trying not to make much noise as they clink together. I’m afraid of disturbing something, maybe myself.
“What happened to your wife?” I ask.
“She died. Dementia due to blood clots a few years back. I lost her way before then, though.”
“I’m sorry.” It feels like something I’m obligated to say, but I mean it. I do. Something similar happened to my grandma, and it ruined my grandfather. He was a man who—even before her passing—was worn away by age, both in body and in spirit. He was the kind of man who’d yell at kids riding their bikes down the street too loudly or walking through his backyard to fish in the nearby lake. All he wanted to do was watch the news and play cards and talk about the past. But Norman. Norman is the grandfather I’ve always wanted. The one I think I needed—at least right now, in this moment.
Norman smiles, looking out the glass door onto the fields he’s tended so carefully. “Don’t be. She was a spectacularly strong woman.”
Smirking, I stack the bowls and put them in the cabinet. “I’ll bet—she had to put up with you.”
Norman’s lips curl up into a grin. He points a spatula at me, flinging water onto the flower print apron that I’m still wearing. “Now there’s the life I’m talking about. Don’t you ever lose that, Arden.”
I open my mouth to speak, but I stop, because something is moving within me. I feel seen and heard, and I soften. “No, actually. My name is Michelle.”
Norman just smiles and shakes his head.
I sit in the back of Norman’s truck with Hendrix, just to make sure he’s alright, because he sure wasn’t alright during breakfast. But right now, he just seems sad. It hangs around him like black smoke.
Norman offers to drive us into town, and to tell you the truth, I’m a little sad to be leaving Norman and his idyllic little farm. Maybe we’ll stop by on our way back.
On our way back. The flippant thought sends my mind skidding into a tailspin. Will we even go back? Can we even go back? Or have we been gone too long? I haven’t even thought about it—what comes after all of this. Now that we’re out of Montana, I’m not sure where we’re going. I think Hendrix and I keep going because we must. Because we have nothing to go back to. We have not reached the other side of this proverbial wilderness just yet.
Norman drops us off in Pierce, Idaho. He gives me a wink before he turns around and heads back into the middle of nowhere. Already, warm nostalgia blossoms in my chest.
Pierce, Idaho is a town carved out of the forest. The road cuts through the land, and the town was dropped straight through it. The blue pines encroach on the squat, wooden buildings.
Hendrix and I wander down the main drag in the dusk, the setting sun turning the world a burning orange. We find a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill—the kind where there’s steps leading down under a building into it. The ceiling feels too low, but there’s live music and the whole place smells like frying oil and beer..
Someone seats us near the dance floor—miraculously, this joint is big enough to have one like that place in Bozeman. We make aimless chatter while waiting for our food, but all I can think about is the future. After three songs, the waiter finally brings us our food
“You wanna try my fish tacos?” I ask, holding up the floppy tortilla. Chipotle sauce drips onto my plate.
“No thanks.” Hendrix physically recoils.
“What? You got a problem with tacos?” I smirk.
“No— ”
“Did tacos make fun of you as a kid? Did they point fingers and laugh at you in elementary school, huh?”
The smile immediately falls from my face. Glaring at me, Hendrix grits his teeth, as if he’s deciding whether or not he’s going to lash out. Tension—hot and solid—builds between us, but Hendrix just stuffs his hands in his pockets and glances at the bar. “You’re a bitch.”
“At least I’m not a sociopath.” As soon as the words come out, my stomach sinks with regret. Instead of exploding, Hendrix just takes out his phone, the blue glow pulling him in a digital world. Somehow, deliberate shunning gets on my nerves even more than him being downright aggressive.
“So, what happened this morning?” I ask. It seems like I can still hear the crash of his chair, the way he slammed the door, and how it seemed to awaken the ghosts in Norman’s house.
Hendrix tightens. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
Absently, I finish off my first taco as something aching and strange brews in my chest, a change of heart. “Are you okay?”
“Are you?” His response is lightning fast, and laced with poison.
I sit up, looking past Hendrix to the restaurant around us. The cigarette smoke hanging in the air gets to my throat. “No, not really,” I respond.
Hendrix scoffs. “Yeah, me neither.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” The words, the conversational beats, feel mechanical at this point. Did I learn nothing from Norman?
“No.”
“Of course you don’t.” His answers are quick, but mine are faster. Before I know what I’m doing, I push out my chair and walk out of the restaurant. I’m just mad—fed up with Hendrix, really—and I need some air.
My heart pounds raw in my chest as I walk up the stairs and out into the fading orange light. My brain screams at me: Why are you doing this? Why are you running away? But I have no good answer. The only thing that makes sense is this, the one thought that pushes up above all the rest: I want to know Hendrix, despite all the ugly parts. It’s strange, but I see pieces of myself in him. Snapshots of color that only I recognize. That’s why I asked—well, coerced—him into coming. But the tragedy is: I don’t think he wants to know me.
In case I had any doubt that I’m in almost-rural Idaho, I pass a black box nailed to a streetlight—a payphone. Something makes me stop and slide silver quarters into the slot. Something makes me dial my mother’s cell phone number.
It rings twice, and then she picks up.
“Hello?”
My eyes burn with tears as I clutch the plastic phone in my hands. At just the sound of her voice—the pitch, the texture—the something inside me crumbles. For all of my mother’s vanity, for all of her shortcomings . . . I miss her. It hits me like a cold wind, rushing through all the hollow places. The evening light fades fast.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” my mom says. She sounds agitated, like there are a million better things that she’d be doing right now. For some reason, it’s comforting because my mother always sounds that way. It sounds like a home—a home I’ve never known but a desire for it that’s been ingrained into me like dust from the stars.
She pauses, breathing into the phone carefully. “Michelle, is that you?”
Tears streaming down my face, I hang up the phone. I look back toward the restaurant, but keep walking down the ever-darkening main drag, cast in harsh, orange light.
She sounded worried.
Someone’s stuck a massive straw through my heart, coring me straight through the chest. I’m conflicted, all mixed up inside. I keep walking back and forth, up and down the main drag, silent tears streaming down my face. I plead with myself—with the universe—begging for one of my infinite steps to have meaning. The question keeps circling: why did I have to leave—to cut myself off from everyone and everything—to try and find myself?
There’s a bar on the edge of town, with tattered shingles and weak neon signs. Wiping my cheeks, I wander inside. Cigarette smoke hits me in the face, and my heart clenches. Smells a bit like Hendrix. I sit down at the bar.
“Rum and coke,” I say.
The bartender gives me a look—surprise mixed with disdain.
“Please?”
Running his tongue over his teeth, the bartender tosses a white towel over his shoulder. “ID, little lady?”
