Running Wide Open (8 page)

“Kid, if you’re that bored, you can go wash my van.”

I considered flipping him off but didn’t want to be that crass in front of Kasey. “I think I’ll go down by the river.” The previous morning I’d noticed that there was a trail leading along the bank. I’d wanted to explore it, but there hadn’t been time before we’d left for the speedway.

“Well, just stay within earshot,” Race said. “We’re gonna leave in about half an hour.”

Outside, I saw a kid pushing Matchbox cars around the roots of a cottonwood tree directly across from the driveway. He looked Robbie Davis’s age, maybe eight or nine.

“Hey,” he said. “I haven’t seen you before. Did you just move in?”

I wasn’t in the mood to be chatted up by a third-grader, but you can’t bite a little kid’s head off. “I’m staying with my uncle,” I told him, jerking a thumb over my shoulder at the trailer.

“Race?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s cool,” the kid said, sitting back on his heels. “He gives me all his cans and bottles to take back for the deposit.”

Now why didn’t that surprise me? I told the kid I’d see him around then continued toward the river.

As dumpy as the trailer park was, there was still something wild and soothing about the stretch of the Willamette that ran behind it. I slipped along the bank, pushing my way through the shrubs and clumps of fern that intruded on the narrow pathway. Above, clouds clustered, shafts of sunlight glinting against their sinister gray. The scent of impending rain and the sweet smell of cottonwood hung in the air, pushed along by a faint, damp wind.

I hoped that if I got far enough downstream, out of sight of the bridge that crossed the river into Springfield, I might find a peaceful retreat. A place I could sit and read without being discovered. A place where I could pull out my notebook and engage in a little creativity.

The truth was, reading was only half my secret. The thing I really kept under wraps was my ambition to be a writer. Since the summer after sixth grade, I’d spent a good part of my free time messing around with short stories and song parodies—stuff like Weird Al sang. I’d have been mortified if anyone found out. Mom had hassled me enough when I was younger for being a geek. She had this idea that creative, bookish guys were destined for a pathetic life of working minimum wage jobs and having their asses kicked regularly by real men.

There was only one person I’d talked to about my writing—my English teacher last fall. After he’d shoveled on the praise about the first couple essays I’d turned in, I mustered up my courage and showed him one of my stories. It took him most of fall term to get it back to me. Even then, he didn’t give me any real feedback. He just corrected the spelling and grammar in hateful red pen, taking all the art out of it. And he put the dialog in proper English, not getting that I wanted to write it the way my characters would really say it. When I tried to explain that to him, he said, “You have to learn the rules before you can break them, Cody.” The memory of it made me feel like I’d been caught walking buck-naked through the school auditorium.

I made it about a quarter mile downstream before I realized it was time to be getting back. A couple places looked promising for a hangout—a cluster of boulders, forming giant stepping-stones down the bank, and a downed tree, which jutted out into the river. Even though things were looking up a little with my uncle, it was a relief to know there was someplace I could escape to.

As I neared the trailer park, the curses and shouts of a fight overpowered the whisper of the Willamette. I scrambled up the bank to see the kid who’d been playing under the cottonwood getting the snot beat out of him by a guy as big as me. With as much trouble as I’d been in, I thought twice about getting involved. Somebody else’s fight is somebody else’s problem. But I hate bullies. Being on the left side of the bell curve for sheer bulk, I’d gotten clobbered too many times when I was younger.

The big kid had the little one backed up against a tree. Most of the real damage had already been done. Now he was just tormenting him, poking him in the shoulder and ribs with two rigid fingers to emphasize his threats.

“Hey, leave him alone,” I said.

The bully, gripping the bloody T-shirt of his victim, shot me a disbelieving look. “You gonna make me?”

“Only if you ask nice.”

The kid sneered, shifting his weight slightly to include me in his circle of menace. With prey-like instinct, the little guy took advantage of his distraction and pulled a Houdini.

“Son of a bitch!”

I should’ve guessed that, deprived of his quarry, the bully would turn his aggression on me. Still, when he head-butted me in the ribs, the attack caught me off guard. Rage soared up like a summer squall as we hit the ground, floundering in the dirt. I unloaded on the kid, slamming my fist into his cheek, his ribs, his eye. Shouts filled the air around us, but they barely registered. The bully got in a few good licks before I felt someone pulling me away.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Race’s voice cut through my fury. The bully, restrained by another guy, was just close enough to catch me in the shin with the toe of his Nike. I lunged against my uncle’s grip but wasn’t able to break free.

“Damn it, kid, lay off!” Race shouted.

“I didn’t start it!”

“I don’t care. That’s no excuse for beating up a twelve-year-old!”

Race’s words drained the rest of the fight out of me.

“He’s
twelve
?” I’d been getting my ass kicked by a sixth-grader? I shook off Race’s grip and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. It came away bloody. Humiliation rolled over me in a cold, sick wave. Then I saw Kasey and discovered a whole new meaning for the word.

“Get back to the trailer,” Race said. The disappointment in his eyes hit harder than anything that stupid kid had thrown at me. How could he be so ready to believe the worst?

“But—”

“Now!”

He was just like everyone else. Washing his hands of me, not even waiting for an explanation. The crappiest thing about it was that I should’ve known better. I’d sold my soul for a few karate lessons, and he’d wadded it up and tossed it in the trash.

“Piss off!” I said.

“Cody—”

Turning toward the river, I ran.

Chapter 6

The path along the river had been tricky enough to navigate while walking. At a full run, I tripped over rocks and lurched down the muddy bank, soaking myself to the knees. None of that slowed me down. Neither did Race shouting my name, or the dampness in my eyes that meant I was close to losing control in a way I hadn’t since I was little.

Panting hard, I finally collapsed against the rough bark of a Douglas fir, steeling myself against tears that I’d be damned if I let fall. I cursed myself for being so weak. Much as I’d scorned Race for his softness, it was me who was the real wimp. Mom used to ride me about it all the time. “Big boys don’t cry, Cody,” she’d say whenever I started sniveling.

The crazy thing was, stuff like falling off my bike or not getting my own way didn’t faze me. I just seemed to feel things nobody else did. It was like my emotions were an instrument the universe could play at will. Every time I saw a dead animal beside the road, or heard my mom screaming at my dad, I’d get all weepy.

“Stop being such a baby,” Mom would say.

Somehow I’d gotten a grip by the time I started school. Kids wouldn’t put up with a crybaby, and since I was short and scrawny, bullies already had enough reason to single me out. But the feelings never stopped, I just found ways to disguise them. Getting mad was easiest. No one questioned the manliness of a guy who lost his temper, and it was satisfying to channel that onslaught of emotion into a good rage.

The blood drying on my face started to itch, so I stumbled to the river. Wet jeans clung to my calves as I squatted to wash. Even though my shoes and pant legs were saturated, I wasn’t about to go back. Not with Kasey there. Instead, I slumped against the Douglas fir and stared out at the water.

I couldn’t believe I’d done it again. Let down my guard. Got suckered in. How pathetic could I be? For over an hour I sat there, hating myself and wondering what to do next. After what had happened, I couldn’t stay.

Eventually, a plan began to form. I’d pack my stuff, sit tight until Race fell asleep, and slip out. I could hitchhike south. Go someplace cool like L.A.

* * *

I waited until dark before returning to the trailer, then snuck in through the back door—the one that led directly into my bedroom. Race heard me and came down the hall, but the confrontation I expected didn’t happen. Instead, he stood outside my door, not even pushing it open.

“Cody?” he said. There was no anger in his voice, just a high, questioning note.

“Go away.”

Race hesitated, then his footsteps retreated to the front room.

Once I was sure he was gone, I jammed my writing notebooks, some clothes, and my favorite books into my duffle bag. Then I pulled out
The Outsiders
and read it for the fiftieth time. It seemed like forever before Race finally turned off the TV.

After giving it another half hour to be safe, I eased open the back door. Cool night drifted in, smelling of cut grass and river mud. The rain that had threatened since late afternoon still hung back, but something in the wind told me it wouldn’t be long before it fell. I stepped cautiously down the squeaky stairs and made for the road outside the trailer park, where I’d seen a sign pointing to I-5.

The hike to the freeway turned out to be only about a mile and a half. Getting there was the easy part. Catching a ride was a bitch. I stood at the base of the southbound on-ramp for half an hour, but the few people out at twelve-thirty on Sunday night didn’t trouble themselves on my account. At last, an old dude in a pickup stopped and offered to take me as far as Creswell. With rain beginning to spot the asphalt I didn’t bother to ask where that was. Only about ten miles south of Eugene, it turned out. Fifteen minutes later I was back on the side of I-5, rain pelting me with a vigor that Race’s shower could only wish for.

I started walking. My leather jacket kept most of me dry, but my hair and shoes soaked up the water. Cars whizzed by, trailing red streaks that shimmered on wet asphalt before fading into the night. No one even slowed down. Still, I didn’t let myself think this might be a bad idea. Sure, it was wet and cold now, but by this time tomorrow I’d be in sunny southern California.

Another hour and a half passed as I trudged southward. Finally, I spotted a sign announcing a rest area. I could sleep there and catch a ride in the morning.

Finding a place to lie down in that dripping, deserted scrap of civilization was a challenge. The bathroom was dry and relatively warm, but it reeked. The map kiosk offered a little protection from the rain, but it was too exposed. Finally I decided on a hemlock about a hundred yards from the parking lot. The spreading, densely-needled branches almost swept the ground, offering a decent amount of shelter. I curled up under it using my duffle bag for a pillow. Within five seconds, I knew how much sleeping on the ground was gonna suck.

Shit, maybe this whole idea had been a mistake. But how could I have stayed? Race had bitten my head off, jumping to conclusions just like Dad. If I hadn’t left, he would’ve thrown me out anyway. Anyone could’ve seen that from the look on his face. At least this way it was my decision.

You’d think that at 2 a.m. a person could sleep anywhere, but it didn’t happen. My body ached from the fight, the ground dug into my hip and shoulder, and my feet felt like I’d been wading through a Slurpee machine. Around me, darkness closed in despite the lights in the parking lot. The thought of all that farmland and wilderness bordering the rest area gave me the creeps. Who knew what kind of wildlife was out there, waiting to snack on a city boy? Cursing the chain of events that had led me to be shivering under a damn tree in the middle of nowhere, I curled into a ball and waited for the sun to come up.

A wave of anger rolled over me as I thought of my mother in Phoenix, no doubt snuggled up in some warm, cozy bed. I hoped she suffocated in her goose down comforter. I hoped she flunked out of the bartending school Dad said she’d enrolled in. The idea of her lending a sympathetic ear to some wasted boozehound made me laugh. She never listened to
my
problems. For years now her attitude had been,
you’ve got a roof over your head, food in your belly, and clothes on your back. Don’t expect me to take a personal interest in your life, too.

Resentment bubbled and roiled as I remembered all her screw-ups. But a tiny, honest voice told me to get real. I wouldn’t care so much about the mean things she’d done if I didn’t have good things to compare them to.

When I was really little, maybe two or three, Mom had been my best friend. She’d been so beautiful, so charming, and I’d been willing to do anything to make her happy. Every night when she tucked me into bed, she’d snuggle close and tell me stories. She didn’t read them from a book. She made them up—fairy tales in which she was the beautiful queen and I was her brave and noble prince. But somewhere along the line that changed. I guess I stopped being cute and sweet enough for her. Or maybe I wasn’t brave enough. Maybe she was right, and I was too much like my dad. By the time I was in kindergarten, it seemed like I couldn’t do anything right. I was too noisy, too thoughtless, too moody. Every once in awhile the old magic would come back, but then I’d do something to set her off again.

For years I tried to win back that closeness, stuffing my feelings away, giving her treasures I’d found, setting the table without being told. But none of it worked. Even now there was a part of me that hoped she’d wake up one morning and start loving me again. Sometimes, for a second, I almost thought she had. But whenever we started to form a real connection, she made some offhand comment that told me she didn’t have the first clue about who I was.
Since when aren’t you good at math? You’ve always loved math!

I tried to sweep the thoughts of her from my mind, but they swarmed back like mosquitoes, only scattering when the sky started to brighten in the east and I finally dozed off.