An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes (23 page)

“Thank you, Arch,” Dante says. “I appreciate that.” Mari reaches across the table and places her hand on his bandaged forearm.

Archie says. “You're my friend, and I hate how I made you feel. I've got some stuff I'm trying to work through, but know that I am trying to figure it out. For you . . . and for my dad.”

Sam looks up at Archie, surprised, but Dante just nods. “I know, Arch. I heard you and Mari talking last night.”

Archie drops his eyes. “Oh. Sorry.”

Dante looks at Archie. “There was nothing you need to apologize for in that.”

“So are we cool?”

“Yeah, we're cool.” Dante extends his fist and Archie bumps it with his own.

They lower their forks to begin eating, but Sam says, “Wait, guys. I have something to say, too.”

Mari looks up. “Oh?”

“Yeah, sorry I've been a flake this past week. And sorry I tried to steal your car, Mari. And sorry, Archie, that I hit you with it.”

“It's all right,” Archie shrugs. He takes Mari's hand under the table. “I think I understand now how you feel, about wanting to be with someone so bad you'll do anything to be with them.”

“Can I eat now, or does someone else have an apology they need to get out?” Dante asks. “My bacon's getting cold.”

Nobody says anything, so everyone starts eating.

But then Jack reappears at the end of their booth. “So you in? I'll drop it to twenty each.”

“We'll pass,” Mari says.

“All right, all right,” Jack says. He sighs and runs a hand over his mouth. “Truth is, my girl's real pissed. Likes to take a hot soak in the tub almost every night, ya know? But can't do that seeing as how it's filled with tiny gators. So I just need to get rid of these little fuckers. Heck, you can have as many as you want for free. I make a call, and my girl brings 'em by before you're done with your meal. What do ya say?”

Sam looks at his friends and grins.

Mari wrinkles her nose. “What's that smell?” she asks without taking her eyes off the road.

“Probably Dante,” Archie says from the front seat. “Big guy's been ripping farts this whole trip like crazy.”

“No, I haven't,” Dante says. He reaches forward and flicks Archie's ear.

“No, seriously,” Mari says. “It smells like . . . I don't know. But it's nasty.”

Dante and Archie sniff, their faces scrunching when they catch the scent.

“Sam?”

Sam sticks his nose into the large bucket and sniffs. “It's definitely not Reptar.” He peers at his new friend, the tiny alligator swimming in the shallow water. Its leathery skin speckled with yellow and brown. It looks up at him with its permanent grin and murderous eyes, and begins to claw and scratch the side of the bucket as if trying to escape.

And then out of nowhere, the car stops making its strange sounds, the dying gerbil noise Archie had complained about during his first turn behind the wheel. It is as if the engine has finally cleared its throat.

Mari looks at the others and smiles. “I guess the fresh air's doing the old girl some good.”

But then the engine shudders and everything shuts off. The dials on the dashboard all drop to zero. The radio and lights blink off. They feel the car coasting but slowing.

“Shit,” she says. She steps on the gas pedal, but nothing happens.

Mari pulls over. “What now?” she asks as the car slows to a stop.

The white wisps are faint at first, and Mari thinks her tired eyes are just playing tricks on her. She tells herself that condensation vapors are slipping out of the vent. But the vapors quickly thicken and darken until they become tendrils of brown smoke.

“Guys?” she asks.

Everyone sits up. The acrid smell becomes overpowering.

“Give it a minute. See if it goes away,” Sam says. “Just roll down the windows.”

They do. But the smoke thickens and begins to choke the car's interior. Some of it drifts out the open windows, but more smoke pours in. It becomes difficult to see.

Coughing, they grab what they can and pile out.

Cars whiz past, kicking up dust and gravel. The surrounding pine trees rustle in the wind. Sunlight shifts behind the clouds.

Something orange flickers out from beneath the hood.

They step back.

“Um, should we call 911?” Archie asks nobody in particular. Dante takes out his phone.

The flames grow, now undeniable. They hiss and crackle, licking the underside of the hood, trying to escape. A thick, brown smoke  billows out of the car and floats into the sky.

“Fuck,” says Sam, alligator bucket in one hand, Sunshine's book in the other.

“Yeah,” Mari says. “Grab your stuff.”

As Dante dials, Sam, Mari, and Archie rush to empty their belongings from the trunk. They swing their bags over their shoulders and scramble down the road ahead of the car, stopping only when they're outside of what Archie deems to be the blast radius.

“They said someone will be here soon,” Dante says, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

They set down their things and gaze at the car, watching the fire grow, feeling the heat even from where they stand.

A few minutes pass, and a state trooper pulls up, lights flashing. He steps out of his car, revealing himself to be a small man bearing a small fire extinguisher.

“Y'all back up,” he tells them. Carefully, he pops the hood, points the fire extinguisher's hose at the engine, and squeezes the trigger.

But nothing comes out. Not that white, foamy stuff. Not even a puff of air.

Nothing.

“The universe is conspiring against us,” Sam says into his bucket.

Dante nods.

“Goddamn cutbacks,” the trooper mumbles. He speaks into the radio at his shoulder and then tosses the useless fire extinguisher into the trunk of his patrol car. “Fire department's on its way. But it's local. Volunteer, actually. Probably take a few.”

Together, they watch the flames spread, swelling and swirling like something alive until it engulfs the front half of the car. Pieces of the car's frame start to blacken, melt, and sag. They watch the surreal scene, frozen with disbelief.

“Stay over here. I'll be back in a sec to get your info. Call whoever you need to.” The trooper disappears into his patrol car and begins tapping away at his computer and talking on his radio.

“My parents are going to kill me.” And then Mari realizes her hands are empty. She looks around, digs through her bag, panicked. Not finding what she's looking for, she lifts her eyes to her burning car. “My notebook.”

“What about it?” Archie asks.

Her eyes widen as he holds it up. She snatches it away and flips through the pages. She finds something, pulls it out, and presses it to her chest. “Thank you.” She wraps her arms around Archie.

“What is that?” he asks, as they pull apart.

“A letter,” she says.

“From your other boyfriend?”

“Oh, are you my boyfriend?”

“Don't dodge the question.”

“It's from my real mom. My birth mother, I mean.”

“I didn't know you had contact with her,” Archie says.

“I didn't.”

“What's it say?” Dante asks.

Mari turns the thin, unopened envelope in her hands. “I don't know.”

“Well we've got time,” Archie says, tilting his head toward the conflagration.

There's something about the absurdity of the burning car that makes Mari think of her mom. The cancer lurking within her breast. Waiting to ignite, to consume her mom like the flames devouring the car.

Her mom wanted her to contact her biological mother. It is only now that Mari realizes the simple fact that she has been resisting for selfish reasons. The woman had rejected her, and in her resentment, Mari responded with rejection. She had formed indefensible walls around her heart. And who was that helping in the long run?

She loves her mom so completely and utterly. And if her mom wants Mari to open up those walls, then perhaps she should. And now would be the time to do so.

“I guess you're right,” Mari says.

She wanders a few feet away from the others. She takes a deep breath, slides a finger under the flap, and tears the envelope open across the top. After removing the single page and unfolding it, she wonders at the handwriting, so similar to her own. She is surprised to discover that the letter is dated the day she was born.

She reads:

Mari refolds the letter and tucks it back into the envelope. Then, she starts to cry.

Nobody asks what the letter says, because they all sense the question would be sacrilegious. They sense she needs to grieve, needs to process alone. But they also sense she needs to know she is not alone. So they join her. Archie hugs her, Dante puts a hand on her shoulder, and even Sam inches a bit closer to the group.

Mari exhales and wipes her eyes with the cuff of her hoodie.

“You still want Sam to replace that window?” Archie asks.

Mari laughs through her tears. “My parents are going to be pissed. And how are we going to get you to Seattle now, Sam?”

Sam gazes as the burning car. “It really does seem like every force in the universe is trying to tell me not to go. Maybe it's time I listen.”

But Mari shakes her head. “My car's not giving her life for nothing. We can't control the world, but we can control how we react to it. We'll find a way.”

The short trooper walks over, interrupting their moment. “My guess? Electrical fire. I could be wrong. Either way, you're not going to be able to drive this thing anymore.” He gestures to Mari's still burning car as if that were even a possibility. “You'll probably want to call a tow truck to take it to the nearest junkyard.”

Mari sighs.

The trooper adjusts his sunglasses. “You got someone who can pick you up? Based on those Jersey plates, I assume you're a long way from home.”

Sam, Mari, Dante, and Archie look at one another.

The trooper rubs the back of his neck. “Well, maybe the tow truck can take—” he stops speaking as his eyes land on the book in Sam's hand, the copy of
On the Road
that Sunshine gave them. “That what I think it is?”

Sam tilt's the cover toward him. “A book?”

The trooper laughs. “Mind if I have a look?”

Sam hands it over. The trooper takes it, and turns it over, handling it carefully like a relic. He runs his hand over the cover, opens it to the copyright page, and scans the tiny print.

“Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. First edition.” His eyes flick between them and the book. “I majored in English in college until I read this book.”

“And then what?” Archie asks.

“I dropped out of school and traveled the country.”

“And now you're a police officer,” Sam observes.

“I'll tell you what,” the trooper says, rubbing his chin. “You let me have this, and I'll give you a ride to wherever you were headed.”

Mari looks at Sam and smiles. She turns back to the trooper. “Seattle,” she says.

“Great!” The trooper says. “Just sit tight a moment.” He returns to his car.

“You actually seem to be taking this all pretty well,” Archie says to Mari. He takes her hand and squeezes it.

She smiles at him. She looks at Sam and Dante standing next to her. She feels the letter in her other hand, its paper weight insubstantial. She watches her car burn.

“It's just a car. We have to let go of what no longer matters.”

After the firefighters extinguished the flames.

And the paramedics checked vision and breathing and pulse.

And they called home.

After the yelling and the apologies and the relief.

After hotel arrangements were made for the night and plane tickets purchased.

The state trooper dropped them off in front of Sarah's school.

He would have preferred to leave them at someone's house, but that was all they had. None of them had Sarah's new address yet, not even Sam, and she wasn't answering their texts and calls. And, of course, he had made a deal.

So it is; they now sit on a bench in front of the school with all their smoke-scented belongings, watching the doors and waiting.