Going Places Read online

  “I’m embarrassed to show it to you because you’re so talented,” she said hesitantly, as though trying to pierce the armor of my blank stare. “And I hope you don’t mind I used the pink poodle idea. I know we talked about you using it, so I can take it out if you want.”

  “No, it’s great. Really . . . wonderful. I can’t believe you’ve gotten so far with it.”

  She relaxed after that. “I was wondering if you could help me with a few of the problems.” So we worked on her drawings together until Mom came home and invited her to stay for dinner.

  There was a constant flow of texts between Alana and Bryce the entire time. As the night went on and we finished washing dishes, she deflated a little with each incoming text.

  “Put your phone away, and forget about him for a while.” I couldn’t take it anymore. “Or just go be with him if you’re going to text all night.” I knew I sounded sulky, but she was paying more attention to the guy who wasn’t in the room than the guy who was.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right.” She dumped her phone into the canvas bag and then pulled it back out and powered it off. “There.”

  “You wanna do something?” I asked. It was getting kind of late to do anything by then. “You want me to take you home?”

  “Could I stay here tonight?” she asked apologetically. “My dad’s traveling, and I don’t feel like being alone.”

  Mom was in her room reading, and I knew I’d have to run it by her, but I also knew she’d probably be fine with it.

  “Of course,” Mom said when I went into her bedroom to let her know. “Let me get some sheets and I’ll make up the sofa for her. Or you can give her your bed and you can take the sofa.”

  “Just give me the sheets. I’ll take care of it. You stay here.” I didn’t want Mommy tucking us in.

  We made up the sofa and Alana said she’d sleep there.

  “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, Hudson. This is so great, thanks.”

  We were both tired (me from my basketball workout and her from Bryce-related-depression) so we went to sleep not long afterwards. But sometime in the middle of the night, Alana came into my room and lay down beside me.

  “I was lonely,” she whispered when I startled awake. “Can I sleep next to you?”

  Of course I didn’t object.

  But nothing happened except that Alana went right to sleep, and I remained wide awake for the rest of the night, not daring to move or even breathe loudly for fear of waking her. Sometime around five in the morning, I crept out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me. I lay down on the sofa and instantly fell asleep. Didn’t want Mom to wake up and find us in the same bed.

  Mom shook me awake around noon, knowing I was going to Frankie’s recital which started at one o’clock. I jumped up and showered while she shook Alana awake. Not realizing I’d spent much of the night in bed with Alana, Mom thought I’d be too embarrassed and modest to go in there and wake her myself.

  “Hudson,” Alana mumbled groggily before focusing on my mother’s hovering face. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “Hudson’s in the shower because he has to be somewhere in forty-five minutes. I left some sweet rolls out for you kids. He can drop you off on his way, but I have to leave right now.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Wheeler. Thanks for letting me stay last night.”

  “Anytime, honey.” And then an unexpected kiss from Mom on the top of Alana’s head. I know because Alana told me. Embarrassing, but sweet, I guess, at the same time.

  Alana pressed me all the way to her house for more information on my one o’clock date. “A piano recital with the big girl, what was her name . . . Fritzy?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I didn’t know you liked piano.”

  “I’ve started to.”

  “Are you spending all day with her?”

  “I’m not sure how long the recital lasts. There’s a reception afterwards I think.”

  I liked being interrogated by Alana—payback. It gave me a taste for what it feels like to be the object of someone’s jealousy, even though I knew it was only friend jealousy and not boyfriend jealousy.

  >>>

  A piano recital is not as much fun as it sounds. Especially when most of the performers are between the ages of eight and ten. Frankie was clearly Mr. Scolari’s star pupil, and I did feel a sort of proprietary pride when he played.

  Afterwards, there were refreshments that one of the parents laid out on a table in the back. Surrounded by the members of the Fritz family, I felt like a chihuahua in a pack of Great Danes.

  Mr. Scolari came over to congratulate Frankie on his performance. With his dark hair and small stature, he could easily be mistaken for my father. The taut muscles on his forearms quivered when he reached out to shake my hand. His powerful grip didn’t fit with the soft melodies that poured out from his fingers.

  “Nice to see you here, Hudson,” he said. “Thanks for coming out to support us today.”

  “Wheeler wants to take piano lessons,” Frankie blurted out. I was surprised he remembered the one time I’d casually mentioned it, more as a way of trying to bond with him.

  “Wonderful!”

  I wondered if Mr. Scolari could sense my complete lack of musical ability and enthusiasm.

  “One day, but not yet. Maybe after I graduate and save up some money for lessons.”

  “I hope you’ll come to me when you’re ready,” he said. “I give adult lessons during the day and on weekends. Do you have a piano at home?”

  “No.”

  “You can rent one,” Fritzy said. “They’re not expensive. And Mr. Scolari comes to your house which makes it a lot easier.”

  “You’re hired!” he laughed. “You’re a wonderful salesperson, Lauren. And I know you do a lot to support your brother.”

  “Yeah, right!” Frankie spat out the most emotional display of wordage I’d ever heard from him. Fritzy reached over and cuffed him on the upper arm. Her version of a love tap.

  It had been an eventful weekend, so I had trouble getting to sleep that night. As tired as I was, thoughts of Alana came hurtling at me like a meteor shower. I’d kind of gone to the next level with her even if she hadn’t gone there with me. I thought back on the night before and visualized her padding into my room on bare feet. For one dream-second when she had first sat on the side of my mattress, I’d thought it was Jennifer and stretched out my leg to shove him off the bed. But it wasn’t Jennifer or even a vision of Alana visiting in my dreams. It was the real live Alana lying next to me. We hadn’t snuggled or anything close to it, but her bare leg brushed against mine. Her soft breath whispered over the hairs of my arm, stiffening them and other body parts to total attention.

  I wanted her so badly, but I didn’t want to want her. It was futile and frustrating. As much as I fantasized about stealing her away from Bryce, I couldn’t make myself believe that was possible. And there was the other part. I didn’t want to steal her away from anyone. I just wanted her to want me the same way I wanted her. That’s why I was already disappointed in love, as new as I was to it. And Alana was disappointed in love as well, but for entirely different reasons. In a strange way, we were bonded together by our disenchantment.

  After hours of floating between wakefulness and sleep, awful because it was neither, the ring of my phone was a relief. Too many times my breath had caught with the expectation of a late night phone call from Alana, only to be confronted by Mr. Pirkle’s number instead. This time, even though I was prepared, the optimist in me argued for the nanosecond it took me to pick up the phone: She’s thinking of me too. She can’t sleep either. We spent the night together last night. She was jealous when she knew I was going to the concert with Fritzy.

  Pirkle’s number flashed on
my phone screen.

  “Hello, Mr. Pirkle,” I spoke to what I assumed would be no one on the other end. I expected the usual whooshings and knocking-about sounds a live phone makes in someone’s pocket. But this time was different.

  “Come quickly. I can see her.” He spoke in a loud, urgent whisper.

  “See who, Mr. Pirkle?”

  “You already know. I’ve told you again and again, but you still won’t believe me.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Again and again.”

  “Mr. Pirkle?”

  “What’s it going to take for you to believe me?” he roared into the phone so loud I had to pull it away from my ear.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying come quickly! How much clearer can I get?”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Of course I’m not sick!”

  *Click*

  Dead silence.

  What the hell? Is he crazy? Should I call the police? He’s old, but he’s probably still strong enough to kill me. Should I wake up Fritzy and tell her I’m going over there? My thoughts raced.

  And then after a few minutes . . . Grow a pair, Hudson.

  I scrambled out of bed and threw on some clothes. It actually felt good to end the pretense of sleep and get up and do something. I scratched out a quick note for Mom and left it on my bed in the unlikely event she’d come into my room at this hour.

  When I arrived at Pirkle’s house, it was all lit up like before. I saw his face peering out the window of his second-floor bedroom, but then it disappeared. I know he saw me. I walked to the front door and put my ear against it for a second. I heard heavy footsteps which I knew came from the stairway that ended only feet away from the door. I knocked and waited. No more footsteps, and no answer. I rang the doorbell and waited. Receding footsteps this time but still no answer.

  I was about to turn around and get back in my car and go home, but I remembered the key. Pirkle had shown me where he hid it in the backyard in case I ever needed it in the event of an emergency. Questions littered my brain. Was this an emergency? And if so, why not just call the cops? But I couldn’t bring myself to call the cops, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I walked around the side of the house and lifted the latch of the gate that led to the backyard. With the bright house lights illuminating my way, I found the key beneath a bush and under a rock. Then I walked back to the front door and rang the doorbell again. Finally, I turned the key and opened the door.

  “Mr. Pirkle?” I called out. “It’s me, Hudson. I used the emergency key to get in.” I tried to come off as confident and casual, but I knew my voice was shaky with fear. I should have let Fritzy know what I was doing. But this was my responsibility, not hers.

  >>>

  Much later I asked myself why I hadn’t seen the signs. They were right there in front of me the whole time.

  Can a person look confused and fierce . . .

  . . . at the same time? Strong and weak? Welcoming and hostile? I wouldn’t have believed it to be true until that night.

  I didn’t see Pirkle when I first opened the door. My eyes swept the living room to the right of me and the kitchen to the left. Then I looked at the staircase and saw him standing in the shadow of the landing. He was as still as a statue, naked except his underwear and combat boots. Tightly gripped in his hands, a baseball bat. His hair, normally neatly slicked back, was sticking out every which way. Even his eyebrows jutted from his forehead like battle flags. My stomach churned, and for a second I thought I was going to be sick.

  “Mr. Pirkle?”

  He didn’t say anything. Just continued to look at me like he was trying to figure out what I was doing there. And then after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said so softly I almost couldn’t hear. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “You called me.”

  “You called me?”

  “No, you called me.”

  Our standoff continued with him about ten steps above me on the landing. Still clutching the bat, although by that point it hung from just one hand.

  “I don’t think so,” he said cautiously.

  “I came by to check on you,” I tried a different approach.

  “Well since you’re here, hurry and come upstairs.”

  “Um . . .”

  “Um, what?”

  “Why do you have that bat? Is something wrong?”

  “Prowler,” he said. “I heard a prowler outside. I’ve been broken into before. This time I’m ready for them.”

  “It wasn’t a prowler, it was just me. I went around the back to get the emergency key when you didn’t answer the door.”

  “Just you then?”

  “Yes, sir. Just me.”

  “Sure about that?” His eyes danced in his head.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “We’re wasting time. Come on up.”

  “Could you put the bat down, please? It’s making me nervous.”

  He shook his head, visibly annoyed, before leaning the bat up against the corner of the landing. I followed him up the stairs. Trailing behind him, I was close enough to see the power of the muscles in his back, even though the skin was brown and wrinkly like old leather and spotted with tufts of silvery hair. His boots made deep clomping sounds with each step. I felt like I was padding on kitten paws.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer so I just followed him into his bedroom, the only room in the house that was dark. It was the first time I’d been up there, and nothing looked out of the ordinary except for the balled-up bed sheets laying in a pile on the floor. He led me to a window which overlooked his backyard, and I was surprised to see the picture of the little girl propped up on the window ledge. Also on the ledge, a pair of high-powered binoculars which he thrust into my hands.

  “Stand here,” he instructed. “Keep looking right at that window across the way. The one that’s lit.”

  A house which rose above the fence of his backyard was like the x-ray opposite version of Mr. Pirkle’s. Where his was light, the other was dark. An upstairs window, small and round, shone brightly in the adjacent house, directly opposite from Mr. Pirkle’s bedroom. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was spy on his neighbor with those binoculars. It felt way too creepy.

  “I don’t think we should be doing this.” I handed the binoculars back to him. “It’s probably illegal or something.”

  “Illegal? I’ll tell you what’s illegal. That’s my daughter over there.”

  “Your daughter lives there?”

  “Lives, no. But she’s there. I just saw her.” He tapped on the framed photo of the little girl. “That’s her picture. Without a doubt, it’s her.”

  I glanced at the little room across the way but didn’t see anybody. I was one hundred percent confused, but I was pretty sure he was even more confused than I was.

  “The girl you saw looked like this girl in the picture?”

  “That’s right. My daughter.”

  “But your daughter . . . she wouldn’t be this age now would she?”

  “Three . . . three-and-a-half almost.”

  “But . . . this picture was taken a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

  “A long time ago?” For a second something seemed to click but then he went on. “Keep looking. She’ll be back any minute.”

  It occurred to me there wasn’t a hint of alcohol on Pirkle’s breath.

  “Can I bring a chair over here?” I asked. “So I can sit down.”

  “Go ahead.” He stared out the window towards the tiny circle of light.

  I dragged the chair over to the window and sat down. Pirkle continued to stand, occasionally bringing the binoculars up to his eyes. From time to
time, I’d glance guiltily at the window but never saw so much as a shadow. Ten, fifteen minutes went by. I yawned. He yawned in response.

  “Mr. Pirkle?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Should I tell you a story?” It worked the last time, and I was pretty tired in spite of all the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

  “A story? Do you know a good one?” he muttered, still focused on the neighbor’s window.

  For some reason, I realized he probably didn’t remember my last story. Not in his current state. I thought I’d give it a try. He liked it before.

  “Did I ever tell you the story about when my father promised to buy me a car?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” He put the binoculars down on the window ledge, walked over to the side of his bed, and sat facing me.

  “I was around seven years old, and my father was about to go away for a long time,” I began.

  By the end of the story, Pirkle was looking at me in that familiar head-ducking way, and I knew he was back. The real Pirkle, not the weird, nearly naked one.

  “Military?” he asked. “Your dad?”

  “Yes, sir. Army. He was killed in Iraq.”

  “It’s a real shame, Hudson. A real shame.” He lay back on his bed, combat boots and all. “You know, I was a military man myself. Marines.”

  “Really? Did you fight in World War II?”

  “Yes, I did. The Pacific front. We fought over every last God-forsaken scrap of coral in that whole goddamn ocean. I thought it would never end. But it did. Eventually everything does.”

  His voice showed signs of fatigue, and when he finally threw his head back on the pillow, he let loose with a series of rip-roaring snores. I sat in the dark watching him for about five minutes until it didn’t seem like he was going to wake up. How he slept through that, I couldn’t imagine.

  I glanced over at the circular window again. The light was off, but I’d seen no one. I stood up and walked to the side of his bed where I picked up one of the blankets from the floor and shook it out. Couldn’t be too comfortable sleeping in those boots, but I didn’t want to risk waking him by pulling them off. I covered him with the blanket and walked down the stairs and out the door, locking it behind me with the emergency key which I slipped into my pocket. I’d return it the next time I was there.