Wild Reckless Page 33

I understand. I fucking hate Iowa too.

  Today, he’s packing his room. He’s been working on it a little at a time. Owen stayed late at school for a test, still catching up from the days he didn’t go. I’ve been here at his house…waiting for him. I’ve been stuck to him like glue, not wanting to miss a single second of the time we have left.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning on Andrew’s doorway. He drops a book in a box and puts a lid on top, sliding it into a corner. “Seems like a waste of space. You should probably pack more in that box than just a book.” I’m trying to be light, but neither of us is feeling it.

  “I shouldn’t be packing at all,” Andrew says, his mouth twists into a reluctant smile, his shoulders shrugging. I move into his room and sit down on his bed next to him.

  “At least you’ll have family there. Owen says the school is really good,” I say, picking up one of his sweatshirts and folding it over my lap. I don’t believe a word that’s coming from my mouth.

  “You’re such a bad liar,” Andrew teases, leaning into me. I put my arm around him and lay my head on his shoulder. “I’ve never even had a girlfriend. I want one of those…here…in Woodstock. I want to get my license, then pick a girl up and take her to the Miller Movie House. I want to go to the Apple Fest with her, and win one of those big, stupid stuffed bears.”

  “We love those big, stupid stuffed bears,” I sigh. Andrew’s shoulder rises with a small laugh. “You’ll have all that in Iowa too,” I say.

  “Yeah…” he says through a heavy sigh. “But it won’t be here.”

  “Owen says you’ll get to move back; when your mom finds a place,” I say. Andrew leaves his eyes on mine, doubt all over his face.

  When I hear the door downstairs, I squeeze Andrew once more and step out of his room. Owen meets me at the top of the stairs, his hand finding its comfortable place on my cheek, his lips finding home on mine.

  “How’d you do?” I ask about his science test.

  “Good, I think. Seemed easy,” he says. “Hey, I have to run up to the home. You want to come with me? I know how you love Grampa.”

  I do love Gus. But more than that, I’m doing everything with Owen, up until the very last second. I don’t even care if it’s a trip to the grocery store for toothpaste—I’m making it.

  I nod yes and thread my arm through Owen’s as we move back down the stairs. I watch Owen as we drive. I’ve been watching him a lot, watching how he looks at things. He’s been living his life, day-to-day, ever since he told me about his family’s plans. His eyes never pause or seem sad when he looks out at stuff; every day passes, just as it always did, as if these days aren’t coming to an end. The only times he gets sentimental are at night, when we’re alone. For a couple of evenings, he sat in his window, on the phone with me, and we listened to each other breathe. But for the last two nights, he’s come over around midnight, letting me sneak him upstairs before my mom gets home. I lock my door, not that she ever checks on me anyway, and he holds me while we both lie awake…not talking about Iowa.

  Emma remembers me when we enter the home this time, and she nods toward Gus’s room, urging me to go on while she and Owen talk.

  “He’s expecting you,” she says as I pass. We exchange smiles, and I think to myself how much she reminds me of my favorite book by the same name.

  Gus is facing the door, his cane in his hand, ready to help him stand as I enter. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him, and I get to him quickly, giving him a hand to his feet. He hugs me as if I’m his own, his hardened hands squeezing my shoulder then wrapping around my back, patting.

  “How’s the metronome, young lady?” he asks. I feel guilty, because I haven’t used it yet. But I will.

  “It’s keeping time,” I say, walking with him toward his door.

  “Let’s bust out of this joint,” he teases, winking at me. His heavy eyebrows dip down then up when he winks, like caterpillars exercising. I wonder if Owen will look like this one day?

  I hold Gus’s arm as we make our way out to the main room, to a small table with a checkerboard on it. Once he’s sitting, I take the other chair. Gus begins to put the pieces in place, his hands shaking a little as he drops the checkers onto their squares with careful precision.

  “So, what’s this business about the boys and Iowa?” I’m surprised when he asks. I wasn’t sure how much Owen had shared with him, or how much he’d remember.

  “I guess Iowa is the land of opportunity,” I jest, my answer laced with sarcasm.

  “Horseshit,” Gus says, tapping his finger on the board between us, then moving his first piece. “That uncle of his ain’t worth a damn, and neither is his business. Now Billy…I always liked Billy. Owen’s dad? But Richard, Owen’s uncle? Well, let’s just say I have a hard time trusting a fella named Dick for short.”

  Gus keeps his eyes trained on the pieces on our game board. I’m glad, because I’m blushing from his bluntness. I’m also feeling more uneasy about Owen leaving.

  “I want him to stay.” My honesty surprises me. Gus, he has a way of filling me with comfort, and I have to talk to someone about how I feel. I think he might be my only outlet.

  He looks up at me before reaching forward to grab a checker, his heavy brow cocked on one end. “You need to convince him it’s safe to stay,” he says, letting his hand go from the board. Gus leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest. He looks around the room, and when he sees Owen and Emma far away, sitting at her desk, he looks back at me.

  “Owen’s always craved security,” he says. I can’t help the way I react, flinching in surprise.

  “Owen laughs in the face of danger,” I say, my mind easily counting a dozen things I know about Owen that defy the very idea of feeling comfortable.

  “I didn’t say safe. I said secure,” Gus says, patting his hands once on his belly. “That boy has a nose for danger. He likes thrills. But he also needs to know that when he comes back, after he’s done playing stuntman with all of his antics, that there will be something there waiting for him—a home.”

  “I kind of thought I was his home,” I answer, my chest hurting.

  “You are,” Gus says. “But Owen’s used to people leaving. And he’s never prepared for it. Billy’s death did a number on him. He needs to know he has a place. Right now, he’s looking at Iowa, at that numbskull uncle of his, as a security blanket for his future. He’ll have somewhere to go, something to do…someone to be.”

  I’m starting to understand more, and I’m starting to feel more hopeless. I lean forward as Gus does, and I watch him move one of his checkers. He puts it in a place where it’s vulnerable, where I have no choice but to jump it and keep it as mine. So I do. He makes the same move again, and I jump again. We play without talking for a few minutes, and I grow a small stack of Gus’s checkers, feeling bad that I’m winning, and wondering if I should start making different moves to let him catch up. And then, he moves one more into place, and I see it. He’s been baiting me. As I sit back and look at the board, only a few of his red checkers left, the rest of the board covered in my black, I see the trail he’s left behind. My mind does the math, and I know instantly there’s no way I can win.

  “Give him a place,” Gus says, picking up one of my pieces and handing it to me before working his way out of the chair to stand. He holds his hand on my shoulder, his eyes penetrating mine, his smirk full of confidence and assurance.

  A place.

  I think about Gus’s words the entire way home, about how nice it feels to know your future, to have a plan before you. I think about the way I felt on that stage, when I quit playing for everyone else—and I played something for me. I found my place that very instant. I don’t know where it will take me, what college, if a college at all, where I’ll be able to play that kind of music. But I know that I need to be able to do that in life if I want to feel that feeling again, to feel alive.

  The thoughts and ideas linger in my head the rest of the day, into the late hours. My m
om is home tonight, so Owen stays at his house. We text a few times, and I promise to let him know when my mom heads to bed so he can come over, but by midnight, she’s still awake. I hear her on the phone with someone, and she shuffles into the small spare room downstairs for privacy. I think she’s talking to my dad. She’s been hiding their conversations from me.

  Eventually, Owen gives up on our plan, texting me goodnight, looking at me once more through the window before turning out his light. I turn mine out as well, but my conversation with Gus keeps rolling through my head.

  There’s no way I’m sleeping, so I pull my laptop up from the floor and flip it open. I look at pictures of DePaul. I click through their basketball program until I find the picture of the man I saw with Owen, the one who gave him his card. He’s on the coaching staff. Then I type the words: BILL HARPER WOODSTOCK DEATH.

  The obituary is the first thing to come up. It’s a scan of an old, yellowed clipping from the Woodstock News. I read the list of survivors over and over again—James, Owen, and Andrew. That word…survivors…it catches me. Surviving someone—I don’t know that there’s a better way to describe Owen.

  I flip through a few more pages, some of them not the right Bill Harper, some of them stories about the warehouse Bill worked at, condolences from longtime co-workers and friends. I’m about to flip the computer closed when a small photo catches my eye.

  Owen’s dad is standing in front of a big forklift, his hair hanging heavy over his eyes, his face so much like his son’s. But it’s the face next to him that stops me. It’s familiar, and the name with it can’t be a coincidence.

  I don’t sleep at all, too anxious to get to the next day. I greet Owen in the driveway in the morning, and he’s a little surprised to see me up so early. He’s leaving with Andrew, his brother’s school bag slumped over his back, his body wearing sadness like a suit.

  “Don’t you get to sleep in later now?” Owen asks. His hair is still wet, and it smells like his shampoo. I kiss him on the lips quickly, breathing the scent in through my nose to remember it, then run back to my own car.

  “I do, but I have to do something for English. It’s an extra-credit thing, and I have to get it in this morning,” I say. I can tell Owen doesn’t believe me, but I keep moving forward, waving at him, closing my door, and driving off without glancing back. I know I’ll have a good half-hour at school before he shows up. I just need Mr. Chessman to be there, too.

  I’m hopeful when the teachers’ lot is halfway full, and when the light is spilling out from Mr. Chessman’s classroom, I pick up my step into a light jog. I startle him when I stumble through his door.

  “Kensi, good morning! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says. I notice the stack of homework on his desktop, Owen’s name scribbled at the top of a few papers. He pushes them into a pile, moving them to the side, trying to get my attention away from them. But it’s the only thing my eyes see. I leave my gaze there as I speak.

  “How did you know Bill Harper?” I ask.

  I take the silence that greets me as confirmation. I move closer to Mr. Chessman’s desk, sliding the printout of the picture I found online in front of him. He picks it up, holding it in both hands, his eyes spending long seconds on every detail. It’s more than recognition that shadows his face; it’s memories.

  “How did you find this?” he asks, his eyes still on the black-and-white page. The photo is a bit fuzzy, but the faces are distinct. It’s the eyes. I saw him in those eyes.

  “At first I wasn’t sure why the guy standing with Bill looked so familiar. I thought maybe it was a relative, or that I was remembering a picture I saw at Owen’s house. I’m not sure how you flashed into my head. But I’m glad you did,” I say.

  Mr. Chessman puts the picture down on his desk, the caption below labeling Bill Harper and Dwayne Chessman. His palms are flat along either side of the paper, and he peers up at me slowly.

  “How did you know him?” I ask again. I know it isn’t a happy memory. Mr. Chessman’s eyes are distant. His breathing is slow, and it takes a few seconds before he resolves himself to answering my question.

  “Bill and I worked at the warehouse together. For about a year,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He folds his arms in front of him, his eyes moving lower, to the space under his desk. “I had just gotten out of the Navy, and I was back home, trying to put myself through school. I took the job at the warehouse because the hours fit my classes. They paired me up with Billy because he’d been there the longest,” he says, his eyes coming up to mine briefly before he stands and begins pacing his classroom.

  “Bill trained me on the machines, and I liked working with him so much, they let me stay on his team permanently. His wife, Shannon, would bring him lunch every day, and after a few months on the job, she started bringing a lunch for me, too. I spent a year on Bill’s team, and for a year I sat outside on the picnic table, next to him and across from his wife, eating sandwiches and talking about my college classes and learning about their kids. Shannon wanted to go to college too, but they never had enough money.”

  Mr. Chessman’s gaze drifts away again, his eyes fixed outside, to the sidewalk along the street. More students are arriving, and I know my time with him alone is growing short.

  “Is that why you help Owen? Because you knew Bill?” I say. He turns to me quickly, his brow pinched. I move to his desk and lift the stack of papers, all Owen’s. “His homework. His grades. I know you’ve been collecting things and turning things in for him when he misses other classes.”

  Mr. Chessman’s mouth slides into a smile as he chuckles, moving over to his desk and taking the stack from my hand, spreading it out between us.

  “I don’t do anything for him. I collect his work, check in with his teachers, sure. But Owen…he always does the work himself. He finds a way, finds time. He’s always been that way, ahead of the rest of the class,” Mr. Chessman says, a proud and satisfied grin showing as he pushes the papers back together before moving them to a wire basket on his back table.

  “Ahead?” I question. Mr. Chessman leans against the table, crossing his legs and folding his arms. He’s told me so much, more than he probably should. His quiet worries me, and I start to think I’ve gotten everything I’m going to from him. It’s not enough. I need more; I need to find out if there’s enough there for him to help me, for him to convince Owen to stay.

  “We don’t offer classes here for college credit like they do at some other schools,” he says, and my lungs fill with relief that he’s still sharing. “But we were able to work with the district and the university board so Owen could test at the end of the year, but stay here for basketball. It’s basically the same program his brother’s in, without going to that school. Hopefully he’ll leave here with six or nine credits under his belt already.”

  I nod, thinking back to how Owen answered me, how he said math is easy for him. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me he was trying to earn credit, unless he just believed it would never happen. That thought…it doesn’t surprise me. Owen doesn’t expect anything good in the end.

  “Why do you help him?” I ask, and I leave my eyes on Mr. Chessman’s. My look, it’s pleading with him, begging him to give me an answer. His expression drops before he turns to look out his window again, his hands wrapped around the corners of his table, his forearms flexing and letting go. Of every teacher at this school, Mr. Chessman was always the one to stand up for Owen. He was Owen’s advocate, and I need to know why. “Please…” I say, leaning forward, my hands pressed together.

  “Bill had these quirks,” he begins, his back to me while he speaks. “His face would sometimes tick, and he’d talk to himself. I asked Shannon about it one day when we were eating alone; Bill got called back to repair something. She told me he was bipolar, had hallucinations. His medication took care of it most of the time, but sometimes he’d go a few weeks without taking something. Our insurance at the job was crap, and the pills—they were expensive. The hallucinations
would get really bad when he’d go a few weeks.”

  Mr. Chessman turns to look at me again, his face washed in grief, a look I’ve only seen one other time—on Owen, the day James killed himself.

  “They were laying people off at the warehouse,” he says, his lips parted, a small breath escaping, his jaw working side-to-side. The anger from the memory he’s sharing is still fresh for him after all theses years. His eyes snap to mine. “It was between Billy and me, and I was a couple years younger…a couple years cheaper. So he got the pink slip, sent home early.”

  Mr. Chessman sucks his top lip in, his eyes squarely on mine as they grow with redness. His jaw muscles are working, still trying to understand the rest. His head slowly starts to nod, and my breath shakes when the rest of the story becomes apparent to me, too.

  Bill Harper came home early—fired from a job that didn’t pay enough to begin with, his brain already confused from his illness, his pockets too empty to afford the medicine he needs.

  And then he took his son to a festival…and stepped away from life.

  We sit there in silence, and the sounds of students milling outside grows louder, feet scuffling along the sidewalks just beyond the door, lockers slamming against the nearby walls. I entered this room twenty minutes ago, proof in my hands that there was more to Owen’s story, hope in my heart that Mr. Chessman was the key—that he would help me find Owen’s place. Yet all I feel now is crushed, hopeless and heartsick.

  “He’s going to leave,” I say, my eyes looking to the few minutes I have left, my mind able to draw enough gumption to search for a miracle. “Owen’s moving to Iowa, and he’s going to turn down an offer from DePaul. He’s going to quit school, go work in some print shop with his uncle, so he can send money to his mom to help pay for his grandpa. Mr. Chessman…please. I need your help. He needs to see that none of these things are because of him, that he isn’t cursed. He needs to stay.”

  “Kensi, I don’t have a lot of money. Not the kind they need. If I did, believe me, I’d find a way to give it to that family,” he says.