Текст книги "The Porcupine of Truth"
Автор книги: Bill Konigsberg
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
I’M SILENTLY CURSING Aisha as I leave the park, but I’m also cursing myself, because who walks away from their only friend, without clothes or toiletries or transportation, just because they’re pissed?
Carson does. Idiot Carson does.
I sit down on a bench at the far edge of the park and pull out my phone so I can see how to get to Turk’s on foot. It buzzes and I see a message pop up. Aisha is texting me, but she’s just chosen strangers over her so-called best friend at the most important moment of his life. I’ll let her think about that one for a bit. I ignore her text.
I follow the Google map to Prosper Street, which turns out to be a side street, barely wide enough for a car and lined with picturesque Victorians. I find number 36. It’s lime green and white, two stories, with a garage on the ground level and a staircase with wrought-iron fencing on either side. I stand at the bottom of the steps and count to ten. Then to twenty. This is solving nothing, so I climb the steps and ring the doorbell.
Silence, other than my pounding heart. I ring again. A barking dog, frantic. My heart speeds up.
Nothing else. Just a barking dog.
“Shoot,” I mumble. The barking dog tells me that someone lives here, but, duh. Most houses have people living in them. It’s still not clear if that someone is Turk Braverman, and I have no way of knowing.
I descend the steps and sit down on the second stair. I’ll wait a bit. Just wait and see if someone comes by. I take a moment to check out Aisha’s texts, feeling a little bad for the passive-aggressive thing I’m doing but also looking forward to her apology.
What the hell?
Did you just really walk away from me after I drove you to San Fran-fucking-cisco to deal with your thing? I get a couple hours to do my thing, and suddenly I’m the bad guy?
Gimme a break, Carson. Text me when you get a clue.
My stomach turns. Not the apology I was looking for. Am I actually wrong here? I don’t feel wrong. I feel very, very right. How can I be wrong? I put my phone away.
An hour later, I’m shivering. The sun is descending, and no one told me that San Francisco in July is cold. I am underdressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and the rest of my stuff is in Aisha’s car.
I look up hotels, because now I have some cash and can pay for a place overnight. There’s a guesthouse down the block, but they want $159 for a room with a shared bath. Then I see a place called Beck’s Motor Lodge, just a couple short blocks away. They’re asking $139 for a room with a king-sized bed.
That seems insane to me. Over a hundred bucks to sleep somewhere? I have just under two hundred total. But the more I surf, the more I realize that Beck’s is pretty much a bargain when it comes to San Francisco. And I’m not sleeping outside again.
When I’ve been sitting there for ninety minutes and my teeth are chattering from the cold, I decide to head off to Beck’s for the night, and I push myself to my feet.
Even upset, I feel more at home here in San Francisco than I did in Billings. Mostly it just looks like a really hilly New York. I pass a stringy-haired woman with a shopping cart who mutters curses as she trudges up the hill. Ahead of me, a middle-aged guy wearing dark sunglasses is balancing himself against a tree, apparently drunk or high off his skull. Except when I walk by I see he is not actually leaning against the tree. Rather, his arms are pointed at the tree as if he’s performing a magic spell on it. Welcome to Freakville, Carson. We’ve been waiting for you.
I finally get to Market Street and see the pink-and-blue sign for Beck’s Motor Lodge. It’s a bit of a rundown place, and the guy who checks me in seems particularly disinterested in my welfare. When I ask him if I can pay in cash, he looks at me like I’m an idiot and points to a sign that says CREDIT CARD REQUIRED.
I say, “I don’t have one. All I have is cash.”
He points at the sign again, and I hold back my urge to ask him if this is how he expected his life to turn out. Instead, I just say, as nicely as possible, “Is there anything you can do? I have no car, no place to stay. I don’t know anyone here. Please?”
He rolls his eyes and throws a form on the table. I say, “Thank you, thank you” as I fill out the paperwork. When I’m done, he tosses me a key.
The room is perfectly fine inside. A little musty, maybe, but there’s a big TV and a huge bed. I pull my phone out of my pants pocket and stare at it. No more texts. I feel a twinge in my chest. I’m sitting alone in a hotel room in San Francisco. Maybe this is my fault? Is there something wrong with me that I feel like Aisha is in the wrong? Part of me is like, No way. Absolutely not. And the other part is cringing as I think about what I said to my best friend about getting gay married. She was happy. She met a girl, and I acted like a jerk. Why is that my factory setting?
I swallow my pride and text her.
sorry.
i’m an asshole. but you knew that already.
i got jealous, ok? i have a place for us to stay. text me
and i’ll give you directions. sorry again.
I wait for her response. My heart pounds.
Fifteen minutes pass, and still nothing. Shit. I really fucked up.
I’m hungry, so I head out to find something to eat. Barracuda Sushi is the closest place. When I see how fancy it is, I order a teriyaki chicken plate to go.
On my own, I think as I jaywalk across the street. On my own. Better get used to it. Apparently I’m not so good at the keeping of friends.
I pass a liquor store, and I stop. So many colorful bottles. So many different kinds of beer too. Those are the most alluring to me.
I stare for a good minute, and I calculate how much cash I have left and how many beers I could buy. I fantasize about feeling nothing.
And then I think about my food getting cold.
I hustle across the street to my room and drink a soda with my dinner. And I feel a little proud because I’m not my father. At least not right now. I have a chance never to be him, or never to become what he became.
After I wolf down dinner, and Aisha still hasn’t texted back, I call my dad.
“So if I told you I was someplace that a seventeen-year-old probably shouldn’t be, would you react like a father or a friend?” I ask.
He laughs uncertainly. “Maybe a little of both? Where are you?”
“I’m alone in a hotel room in San Francisco,” I say.
He draws in a breath. “I thought you were coming home soon.”
“I am,” I say. “A couple days, three tops.”
“Are you drunk? High?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “What? No.”
“So you’re in a hotel room in San Francisco, where you aren’t high or drunk. Do you have a girl there?”
“No, and that’s the problem.”
He laughs again.
“Aisha is angry at me because I’m a dickwad. I thought she was being dickwad-ish, but she isn’t talking to me, so I’m guessing I am and I don’t even know it, which kinda sucks.”
He laughs some more. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I say.
His laugh continues. It’s kind and soft. I want to memorize this feeling, this tingling in my legs that tells me I have a dad and we know each other.
“So you’re having an adventure, you’re crashing and burning, but you’re not high, drunk, or messing around with girls?”
“Yup.”
“What am I supposed to be upset about?” he asks.
“Dad,” I say, a little frustrated. “Is that what you’re supposed to say to your kid who is marooned in a hotel room in a strange city alone?”
“Hey. Baby steps, right?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Nope,” he says.
“Good.”
“Easy for you to say. It sucks monkey cock, actually. I’m jonesing for a scotch and soda.”
“You gonna be okay?”
“Could you stay on the phone with me for a while? That would help,” he says, and I hear that unsureness in his voice again. So I do, and I tell him the story of what happened with Aisha, and he has no advice but does laugh at the funny parts, which is better than nothing, and actually calms me down a bit. He tells me that he and my mom are getting along real well, past fighting for the first time in so long he can’t even remember. She’s super pissed at me, he says. “Better get her something in San Francisco. Something good.”
“I’ll buy her a condo,” I say. “Tell her I’m okay and I’m coming back soon.” Then I ask him if he could imagine us being a family again, and he has to pause before he says anything.
“That would be real nice,” he says, his voice weak.
When he gets sleepy, and he promises me he’s just going to hang up and close his eyes, no drinking, I say good night and I tell him I love him. It’s easier this time. Not easy, but easier.
I hang up and check in case a text came in and somehow I didn’t hear it. No.
I text Aisha again.
i’m worried. Please let me know you’re okay and that you’re coming back to stay with me.
It takes her only a few seconds to respond.
Let’s chill for the night. We’ll talk in the morning, okay? I’m fine. Have a place to stay.
K, I text back.
I turn off the lights and listen to the traffic outside. It soothes me, in a way; it sounds like New York. The shadows of cars traverse the walls and I feel the pulse of the city just outside the window. Maybe there are kids who would take tonight and get drunk or go looking for girls. Maybe part of me is one of those kids, I don’t know. Mostly I just want to be alone right now, and that’s a bigger part of me.
I play the entire volleyball scene over and over in my mind. What I said. My tone. My mood. Why did I have to be that way? If I could go back and change the entire thing, I would. I wouldn’t let my pride take over. I would not make my friend feel bad about wanting to enjoy herself.
Tomorrow I’ll either find out what happened to my grandfather, or I never will. There’s no other way it can turn out. I’ll find Turk Braverman, or I won’t. If I do, he’ll know my grandfather. Or he won’t.
And for the second time in a few days, I find myself doing something I don’t normally do.
Please, God. Let me find my grandfather tomorrow. Please. If you exist, please just give me that one thing. Amen.
THE NEXT MORNING, I shower, get dressed in the same dirty clothes I wore yesterday, and think about texting Aisha. But I don’t want to wait for her before going to see Turk Braverman. And why should I? She can join me when she wants, if she wants. I check out of the hotel and start my walk back toward 36 Prosper Street. It’s chilly again, and I wonder if it ever warms up here.
I ring the bell again. I hear the dog bark again.
My heart sinks. Nothing else. No other sounds.
Then, softly, I hear the patter of slow footsteps. My pulse accelerates.
The knob turns. The door opens.
The old man who answers has extremely thin legs, which I can see because he is wearing white shorts that reach to just below his knobby knees. His upper body is thick and muscled. He looks a bit like he might topple over at any moment because he’s too top-heavy. He has a mustache that has clearly been dyed black because the rest of his hair is salt-and-pepper, mostly salt. His face is craggy and lined; he has two horizontal lines across his weathered cheeks that look like minus signs to me.
“So where’s your truck?” he asks, looking around.
“Excuse me?”
He raises an eyebrow and frowns. “They said you were bringing a new cable box. And you’re not holding a new cable box. I’m not feeling enthusiastic about Comcast right now.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m not … I’m not the cable guy.”
“Good,” he says, sizing me up. “No offense, but you look like someone who would have trouble screwing in a light bulb.”
“None taken,” I say. “True story.”
He grins a bit. “So … can I help you?”
I inhale slowly and prepare myself for rejection. “You wouldn’t happen to be Turk Braverman, would you?”
“I would. Who would be asking?”
“I’m Carson. Carson Smith.”
His eyes go soft and his mouth opens.
“So I’m guessing that means you do know my grandfather, then?” I say, and I feel like I could explode out of my skin. Victory. I’ve found him.
He nods slowly. “Come in,” he says, nearly breathless. “Please.”
He opens the door, and there is a black, furry dog sitting at attention, a pink tongue hanging down. His mouth is in a dog approximation of a smile. When he sees me, his thick tail beats against the floor.
“This is Gomer,” he says.
“Cute,” I say. “What kind?”
“Australian Labradoodle.”
“Does he have an accent?”
Turk laughs. “Of course you’d say that. Just like your grandfather.”
I nod, stunned. This man knows my grandfather. Not like thirty years ago, he knew him for a few minutes. He knows him well enough to know his bad sense of humor. My body feels like it’s going to start shaking.
I want to hear everything all at once. But Turk is taking his time.
“You can say hi to Gomer if you want,” he says. “He’s very friendly.”
To be polite, I tentatively get down on one knee. Gomer jumps up on his hind legs to greet me. His tongue shoots at my face. I duck and tumble backward.
“Oh!” I say. “Wasn’t ready for that.”
Turk laughs. “Range and accuracy, this one’s tongue.” He reaches a hand down to lift me up, but I decline, preferring to push myself up on my own.
“Carson Smith,” he says, turning to walk down the hallway to the living room. I follow. “How on earth did you find me?”
“Long story,” I say.
“Well, let me get you some water,” he says, and he motions to an old, weathered leather couch. I sit and look around. His place is casual and comfortable, like there’s nothing in here that doesn’t have history.
“I like your house,” I say. “It’s cool.”
“This old place? Thanks.”
He brings us water and then sits to my right on a smaller version of the couch I’m on.
“So tell me this long story. How did you find me?”
I take a sip and tell him about finding the letter from Russ to Pastor John. Then I back up, realizing I should just give him the whole story. About my dad and mom splitting when I was three. About my dad being sick with cirrhosis of the liver, about us coming to Billings for the summer, meeting Aisha. His face is very reactive to everything I say, and he just lets me spill. When I mention finding his name in the book that Lois Clancy gave me, he laughs.
“Well, now I understand the phone call.”
“What phone call?”
“This past Sunday. I got a call on my old landline phone that I never use anymore. It was from a woman who asked me if I was Turk B. I said I was, and she said, ‘Good, you’re still alive.’ And then she hung up. It freaked me out. I unplugged the phone.”
Which explains why the phone just rang and rang when I tried to call him, I realize. And it confirms that Lois was trying to tell me something when she said that there were answers in the book! I’d just thought she was a weird old lady. I silently thank her.
“So that’s how I found you. And now I’m here because maybe you can tell me where I can find my grandfather. Because my dad deserves to see him before … you know.”
“You haven’t read all the letters, have you?” he asks. His expression is hard to read, and I desperately want to know what he’s thinking.
“They were waterlogged,” I say. “There was a flood. Why? What don’t I know?”
He blinks twice. “Are you up for a drive?”
That’s not what I expect him to say, and my brain spins. My grandfather. He’s taking me to see my grandfather.
I never really expected this moment. I thought I did, but as soon as Turk says those words, I realize I really didn’t. I picture the apartment where my grandfather will live. I imagine him taking me in his arms, hugging me tight.
I can’t share any of these words or feelings, because I cannot speak. I want Aisha to be here with me, I so want her to be here to see this, but I simply cannot wait another minute.
“Please,” I say, breathless. “Please.”
Turk’s car is a red Mustang convertible with no backseat. I’ve never been in a convertible before, and I simply enjoy the straightaways and allow the chilly breeze to sweep through my hair. We don’t talk much as we drive through town. It’s like we’re on a roller coaster, with so much up and down that my stomach feels queasy even when we’re not taking a sharp turn at a high rate of speed.
We’re on a main thoroughfare, California Street, when he pulls abruptly into a parking spot. The street is on such a steep incline that I’m sure we’ll careen downhill, even after he sets the parking brake. He turns the wheel all the way so that it’s facing the curb.
Tall apartment buildings line both sides of the street. Maybe my grandfather lives in one of them? We walk a couple of blocks up the hill in silence. It’s a silence of anticipation.
I’m surprised when we cross the street in the direction of a hulking structure. It would not have been one of my first two thousand guesses of where he was taking me.
AS TURK LEADS me up the thirty or so steps to the entrance of this massive church, I figure it out. My grandfather is the music director here at Grace Cathedral.
Suddenly it all makes sense, all this stuff about religion we’ve been coming across. It all leads here. My grandfather, the man of God. It just fits. I’ve found him. I’m going to meet him. And I’m going to be able to reunite him with my dad. My heart pounds from the excitement.
Inside it’s ornate. There are crazy murals and stained-glass windows all over. Blue light streams in from slats in the incredibly high ceiling, and a few parishioners sit in the front pews. It’s a Monday morning, so no service is going on. People mill around, looking at an artistic display.
The display is a collection of rugs hung on the walls. Huge rugs, each with eight randomly colored panels that appear to be about six feet long and maybe half as tall, in two columns of four rows. Each panel is separate, but they’re stitched together to make a tapestry of sorts. They’re pretty to look at, but Turk grabs my hand and pulls me along so I can’t really examine them in detail. He’s walking with purpose, and I have to hurry to keep up.
We arrive at a rug at the end of the right aisle. He takes me to the left edge and points up.
“Second from the top,” he says, his voice husky.
I look up. The panel is black with white edges and a silver star in the upper right corner. In the lower left corner, someone has embroidered a brown grand piano with white musical notes emanating from it. In the lower right corner is a photo of a man whom I immediately recognize as my grandfather, because he looks like a weird version of my dad. Or me. His eyes are rolling left while his tongue sticks out to the right.
Underneath it reads, “If laughter is the best medicine, why am I dead?”
And in the center, embroidered in elegant script, it says,
Turk puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers, “Let it out, dear. Let it out.”
My grandfather is dead.
My grandfather, who was so much like me, who was supposed to have all the answers for me, whom I was sure I was about to meet. I’ll never get to look in his eyes. I’ll never get to make him laugh. He won’t come back to Billings with me, and reunite with my father.
Dead.
I howl. I just howl. I close my eyes and double over, and I scream the feelings onto the floor of the church until there’s no more air in me. My hands are on my knees like I’ve just been punched in the stomach. I stay down there for a while.
He died in some way that made it noteworthy enough to memorialize, and as soon as I think that thought, I know what he died of. I open my eyes, and I stand up. All the other panels in his tapestry have men’s names. The dates of birth are mostly the 1950s and 1960s. The dates of death are all in the 1980s and early 1990s.
My grandfather died of AIDS.
My grandfather was gay.
I close my eyes again and feel my brain spin. My grandfather, who must have felt he had to keep a secret all his life. Suddenly the pain in his journals makes perfect sense to me. He lived his life ashamed of who he was.
My grandmother, who must have felt so much agony when he told her. Who learned, more than twenty years into their relationship, that her husband wasn’t who she thought he was. Who was living in a lie and didn’t even know it.
My father, who has no clue why his dad left, and who must have felt his dad’s pain and shame all his life. And who passed that on to me in his own way.
And for what?
Then I cry for my father, who is also dying. One day soon he will cease to be alive and I will run out of time with him and we will never throw a ball around and we will never go to the movies or watch a football game, and my father, my poor, poor father, whose father left him. Who missed out on these same things and never knew why, who doesn’t know his father had AIDS, who all this time thought – I don’t even know what he thought, but it wasn’t good for him. Not knowing wasn’t good.
My focus widens from Grandpa’s panel to all the panels around his. Next to my grandfather is a panel for a man named Gordon Todd Jenkins, who was born on May 3, 1955. There’s a palm tree and the sun shining down on it. He must have loved the beach. He died on January 15, 1987. He was thirty-one.
Next to Gordon is Liam Holmes, who must have liked fishing and his country, based on the fishing pole and American flag. He was born on August 17, 1966. He died on December 25, 1989. Christmas Day of his twenty-third year.
All these people. I look farther and see panels for women too. Little babies. All their lights, snuffed out. All their families, like mine. Broken up too soon. It’s a tapestry of lives lost. It’s hundreds upon hundreds of souls expressed in fabric.
I cry for generations of pain. Not just for my family, but for all the families. I’m like a faucet, dry for years, and in the last week it’s been turned on slowly, and now it’s gushing. It’s ugly and snotty and loud and totally not embarrassing at all. I don’t care who sees me.
This is the most intense thing I’ve ever witnessed, and my legs start to shake. Turk seems to understand. He grasps my shoulder and holds me upright. I keep looking at panel after panel. Eugenia Lopez and her horn-rimmed glasses. Micah “Brandy” Washington and his hammer and wrench. Trina Goodman, age six, with tiny pajamas and a teddy bear. When I look down because I can’t see even one more memorial, he takes me by the shoulder and leads me toward the exit.
I turn back one last time to say good-bye to my grandfather.
