Strays (17 page)

About 20 miles down the road, he started thinking about his bottles.

He knew he had two of them left under the passenger seat, for he had counted them before the trip.  He was not sure if he would be able to get more, and in fact hoped he would not need them (Molly had been better than any morning spent with the thermos), but here he was now, westbound on I-70, coming up on the 147 exit to a tiny blink-and-you-miss-it borough called Ogallah, and he suddenly needed a drink.  Badly.  He could not explain the craving, but it caught him like a door slamming on his foot.  Deeper and deeper, it wormed inside, nibbling away at his worst fears, and he had to grip the wheel to keep his hands from trembling as the questions came.

What was he doing here?  How could he up and leave without so much as a word to his parents?  Who was this girl, this Molly, anyway?  Why of all people would a beautiful girl want to be with
him
?

And worst of all, what if she were to leave again?

Almost on auto-pilot, he bent to one side and tried to reach under the front edge of the shotgun seat.  He was leaning at almost a 45-degree angle, his eyes peering just above the dashboard at the road, his left hand struggling to keep the car between the lines, and his right hand groped and clawed.  He thought he could feel the neck of one of the bottles wrapped in a towel, and he pinched it with his fingers and tugged.  No dice.  The bottle was wedged in from behind and would not come out on the front.  No, he would have to go in from the back side.

Kyle sat back up in the seat, steadied the car as it mounted a hill, and the maneuvered it through a northwesterly curve.  Once the road straightened out and he could see asphalt for at least a mile—with little more than a car or two this morning—he pressed himself up with his legs and draped his arm over the back of the seat.

It was a pity this car didn’t have cruise control.  That would have made it so much easier, for he could have taken his foot off the gas pedal as he worked his arm into the back seat to reach for a bottle.  But without cruise control, Kyle’s quest became something of an experiment in human origami.  He had to twist his torso, then move his left foot over to man the gas, cocking his right leg up onto the seat, the tips of the fingers on his left hand barely touching the steering wheel to keep the car on the road.  He stretched his right shoulder, pushing with his right leg to lean back just a little bit further, and at last his right arm was behind the seat, far enough to touch the floor.  If he could just move a few more inches, he would be able to get under the back seat, able to get that bottle, and with a little bit of care and no small amount of luck, he could have that drink while Molly slept. 

His fingers walked their way along the back of the seat, clawing at the fabric, pressing themselves down to the carpeted floor behind the shotgun side.  He twisted his shoulder, his left hand guiding the steering wheel by the tip of the middle finger now, the toe of his left leg extended as far as it could to keep the gas going.  His right arm slithered back, and the fingers stretched to find purchase … and that was when they brushed through something soft and warm and covered with ample amounts of fur.

Kyle poked the furry thing, not sure what could have been left in his car.  He remembered in high school when Bran the Man and his crew had pried open the door of a Principal Spalding’s car with a coat-hanger and put a dead skunk in the back seat.  They never got caught, although everyone in the school knew who it was.  No one came forward because the idea of Spalding driving home with that stench all around was just too priceless.  But this thing now, this creature in the back seat of Kyle’s Impala, felt like an animal.  Could Bran the Man have found a way to prank him as well the day before he left town for good?

Just then, the furry thing moved.  Oh my god, it was alive!  Kyle’s hand recoiled, and he heard it shuffling about.  Something padded his hand, a rubbery paw as the thing on the floor batted at him.  With a yelp and a spastic flailing of limbs he pulled himself back into the front seat, driving his right foot down on the brake.  The tires screeched, and the backside of the car snapped to the left, and then the thing was up on the back of the front seat now, digging its claws into the upholstery and hissing in Kyle’s face.

Kyle screamed then, a fierce little shriek that caught in his throat and made him cough.  He snapped the wheel to the right and drove the car into I-70’s shoulder, and the ridged asphalt grumbled beneath his tires.  He stopped on something even smaller than a dime, his body snapping forward and the black furry thing was thrown off the seat-back and into the dashboard.  Kyle snapped open the driver-side door and tumbled out of the car as if it were on fire. 

A Honda Accord with three boys Kyle’s age roared past him on I-70 just as he slammed the door.  If the boys in the car had been paying attention, they might have distinguished the gangly, dark-haired boy from their graduating class, the “little faggot” who had spoiled their afternoon of fun with Seby Lee some six years prior.  But Bran the Man and his two best friends (who had all left Landes in the Accord about half an hour after Kyle and Molly) were preoccupied, rocking out to the new Van Halen tape, the band’s first album without David Lee Roth.  Bran the Man had purchased it for the trip, and they were jamming with the stereo cranked to capacity.  They did not recognize Kyle Winthrop. 

Kyle jumped as the Accord passed.  He rolled over the hood of the Impala and tumbled off the other side, in the grass just beyond the shoulder.  At once he was back on his feet, backing away from the car but watching wide-eyed as the furry black thing in his car poked its head up and pressed its nose against the glass on the passenger side.

It was the cat, that damned stupid black cat.  Somehow, Seby’s cat had gotten in his car and ridden this far with him.  It was if the cat was intent on cursing his one chance at getting away from Landes.

But then something horrible happened. 

The cat stared at Kyle.  Its paws came up and pressed against the glass.  Its blood-colored eyes widened, and as it shook its furry head the fur seemed to retract.  That weird tingling sensation came over Kyle, the air filled with thousands of invisible sparks that tickled the flesh.  The cat’s face grew wider, and the black fur grew thinner, revealing cream-colored flesh below.  The ears flattened back as if it were angry, and the fur on its crown lengthened, spilling out about its face, which was now large and hairless and somehow less cat-like.  At last, it reared up, and the grey-soled paws pressed against the glass began to lengthen and extend, the claws retracting, the hair sucking its way into her skin, and then she was Molly, blinking but not smiling, her dark eyes boring into Kyle.

“Oh my god,” Kyle said, taking a step back.  “I can’t believe I kissed you.”

And that was when he fainted.

*   *   *   *

“I didn’t want you to know,” Molly said.  “Not yet.”

Kyle paced about in the grass, running his right hand through his hair.  One of his bottles, the one he had opened three days earlier to replenish his thermos, swung at the end of his left arm.  “What are you?” he said.

“It doesn’t matter what I am,” she said.  She had gotten dressed and was leaning against the car, arms crossed and watching him.  “What matters is that I’m here.”

“Why?” he asked.  “Why are you here?”

“At first because I was supposed to be,” she said.  “Later because I wanted.”

“What are you talking about?”

Molly turned her head to one side, thinking, and something made her smile.  “I guess that’s not entirely true.  I wanted to be here from the beginning.  As soon as I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“About you.”

“What do you know about me?” Kyle stammered.  “What could you possibly know about me?”

“I know who you are,” Molly said.  “And I know who you’re supposed to be.”

Kyle stopped in mid-pace and stared at her.  Molly smiled back, and it was an amazing smile, almost toxic with invitation.  It was the same smile she had given him months ago, a smile that promised more pleasure than he could possibly fathom.  It had given him hope during the summer, given promise of a life less lonely.  He had once heard Seby Lee lament about the fear of living without a friend and dying without a witness, and when this fear became Kyle’s fear as well, the thought of Molly—sweet, beautiful Molly—had taken all of that away.  All he wanted was her, but now he realized that she knew that was all he wanted, and she was working that, throwing that smile out like food before a dog.

He had no answer.  He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a pull of the vodka, loving the burn in the back of his throat.  This, at least, he knew.  This he could trust.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Molly said.

“I really wish you weren’t Seby Lee’s cat,” Kyle said.  “For God’s sake, Molly, you’re
his
cat!  Is that what I'm seeing?  I’m not completely crazy here, am I?”

“You’re not crazy.”

He shook his head and took another pull from the bottle.

“Kyle, please don’t do that.”

He did not answer.  He finished his swig, capped the bottle, and turned to grin at her.  He could feel the grin stretching across his face, wide and demented like the Joker in one of Seby’s Batman comic books.  Without thinking, he slapped himself.

“What are you doing?” Molly asked.

Kyle only grimaced and slapped himself again.  A second time.  A third.

“Kyle, stop it!”

“It’s a dream,” he said.  “It has to be.  Wake up now.”

“Kyle.”

“What was it my Dad used to say?  It’s only a movie, only a movie.” 

He slapped himself again, and that was when Molly came to him.  She placed her hands on his arms, squeezing them hard, and her eyes were the color of crude oil as she studied him.  “Stop,” she said.  “Stop now.”

It was all he could manage not to turn away.  Molly’s hands, so soft when they had stroked his hair, now squeezed his arms like wood clamps.

“I’m trying really hard to believe,” she said.

“Believe what?”

“Believe in you.”  She let go then and turned away.  Kyle watched her as she strode back to the car, placed her hands on the hood, and slumped against it, exhausted.  She stood that way for maybe a minute, but it seemed much longer.

“Listen,” she finally said, her back still turned to him.  “If you want to turn around right now and go back home, go right ahead.  I’ll find somebody else.  I don’t think there is anyone else, but if there is, I’ll find him.”  She turned to him then.  “And he’ll be happy to find me, do you see, Kyle?  He’ll be happy to do what he can and do what he has to, because unlike you right now, he’ll be a man.”

“Oh, so I'm not a man now,” he snarled.

“No,” Molly admitted it.  “Not entirely.”

Kyle clenched his teeth, unscrewed the bottle, and took another hard pull.  He did not tilt back his head but extended his jaw and let it gurgle across his tongue, staring at Molly as he did so.  Some of the vodka dribbled down his chin, and when he lowered the bottle, he swiped his mouth with his hand.

“You’ve made your decision,” she said.

He was breathing hard now, and he could feel it stinging in his lungs.  “I'm not a man.”

“You’re a work in progress.”

“If I’m not a man, why are you with me?” he snapped.  “Why did you … that morning behind Mr. Weathers garage.”

“The man I kissed behind the garage was who you are, Kyle?”

“What does that mean?”

“Who you are,” she repeated.  “My hero.”

A dry laugh burst from his chest at that one.  “Don’t kid yourself, Molly.”

“The boy who rescued me and Seby Lee from those bullies all those years ago.  The boy who wanted more than anything to be a bully himself but for some reason he couldn’t.”

“I couldn’t let them hurt you.  Seby, on the other hand …”

“Don’t kid
your
self,” she said.  “You wouldn’t have let them hurt Seby either.  I was just there to make sure you made the right decision.”

“What if I hadn’t done anything?  What if I had joined Bran the Man and those boys and gone to town on both of you?”

“Then you would have gotten what you wanted,” she said.  “At least for a little while.  Those boys would have liked you, and Seby would have never been a part of your life through high school.”  She smiled.  “And we wouldn't be having this conversation right now.”

Kyle considered this, his thumb absently stroking the cap of the bottle in his hand.

“So what’s it going to be then?” Molly asked.  “You want to go back home?  Or do you want to go with me and see what’s in store?”

“Is it good?”

“Some of it.”

“What about the rest of it?”

“I don’t think you want to know about that,” Molly said.  “Not until you’re stronger.”

Kyle smiled and ran his right hand through his hair again.  He almost did not notice when the left hand loosened and the bottle slipped from his fingers, thudding on the grass at his feet.  The sound of it hitting turf pulled him from his trance, and he looked down at it, considering what to do with it.

“Pick it up,” Molly said.

“Huh?”

“You know you want to.  Pick it up.”

Kyle scratched his neck and smiled.  Yes, he wanted to pick it up.  But he wanted Molly more, even now, even after learning this secret.  The right thing to do right then was to pick it up, all right, and then hurl it into the adjacent field, but that struck Kyle as melodramatic, the kind of thing fake alcoholics did on Lifetime TV.  “I better leave it,” he said.

Molly smiled.  “So you’ve made your choice?”

“I have,” Kyle said.  “Besides, Dad always warned me not to drink and drive.”

Molly came to him then, and her arms encircled his waist, and she held him, and he held her back.  It seemed that he held her for a long time, oblivious to it all, to what had come before during that painfully lonely summer, and to what would come after.  He was in the moment, and it was sweet … and then that niggling little part of his brain, the part that had driven him to the thermos all those years ago, flashed a little Post-It note on the back of his eyes.