IT’S a long, cold drive to Little Compton. The heat in Mooney’s Buick is still broken. My wool hat is gone so I’m wearing Benji’s Figawi hat—or rather, the hat Benji stole from Spencer Hewitt—but it’s canvas, not wool. At times like this, it would be nice to be rich, to have a new wool hat and a brand-new SUV and I wonder what I was thinking, leaving the key card to Benji’s stolen goods in the locker. All that bounty is going to rot until some scavenger buys the locker on a reality show. My tendency is always to sink and this is why I need music, but I forgot my music because I have other things on my mind like the fact that I might be fucking blind in one eye over someone as commonplace as Curtis. I’d sooner have my left nut chopped off in honor of Exclamation Point Ethan.
I’m stuck with the radio and there’s nothing but Taylor Swift on every fucking station. She’s like a famous version of you, Beck (dates too much, falls too hard, fucks too fast, flees too hard), and I keep switching stations but apparently Taylor Swift owns a mansion not far from LC (nowhere is far from anywhere in a state this small), and she may as well be the queen and the mayor and the princess of Rhode Island because they play her on the rock stations (Ya know, I’d like to see the Foo Fighters cover some of Miss Swift’s early stuff, or maybe Arcade Fire!), and they play it on the country stations (Let’s check out the latest single from Rhode Island’s newest treasure, y’all know who that is, right?), and they play it on the pop stations (We’re never too old to feel twenty-two, Rhode Island!). Well, fuck you, Taylor Swift, because I never felt further away from twenty-two in my entire adult life and why haven’t they invented a solvent to stop highways from freezing? I’m skidding all over the fucking place.
I stop for gas and check your Twitter. You just tweeted from Mystic, Connecticut. Because you’re a girl, you included a photo of Mystic Pizza.
Limo ride to Mystic for Mystic Pizza on the way to Little C. for winter cottage retreat? #doneanddone #pepperoni #betterthansex #beachhouse
My associations with Mystic, Connecticut, have nothing to do with the fucking Julia Roberts movie. Mystic is a bad place for me. I went there once, with my fourth-grade class, on a field trip. At the time, I had a crush on a gruff, odd misfit named Maureen Grady, “Mo” for short. Most kids are assholes, just like most adults, so yes, a lot of people called her “Ho Mo.” We were with our class touring the deck of a tall ship and it was boring, so Mo and I ditched the tour and broke into the off-limits hull.
In the dark, Mo told me she was going to steal my virginity. I tried to run and she pinned me down. I punched her, escaped, and told the teachers. Mo told a story too, and she was good at crying. Who do you think got sent to the fucking psychologist, to the dean’s office, to the “counselor” with the fucking show-me-who-touched-you-where doll? Not Mo Grady! But I don’t dwell on the past. Mo’s the fuckup now (a twice-divorced paralegal with a profile on OkCupid and a Pomeranian named Gosling—obviously, she’ll be alone forever). I prefer to live in the moment, which is why I erase all thoughts of Mo and log on to Benji’s Twitter and tweet:
There’s nothing sweeter than townie —y. #WinterinNantucket
You officially unfollow Benji. And you send him a direct message:
You are dead to me. Dead.
I smile. I pat myself on the back because Benji’s off in heaven now and I’m dealing with a busted defroster and wet, icy snow. Living is harder than dying, Beck, and I’d give anything to eat pizza with you. I wash my hands in the bathroom at the gas station and my face is hard to look at right now. Fucking Curtis and his goons marked me. There is a large, Halloween-ish gash on my forehead and another one on my cheek. I splash cold water and I go on, just like Celine Dion’s heart did back in Bridgeport.
I make relatively good time to Little Compton considering the snow and my face. My vision is blurry and I try to watch the road with my left eye. The snow is still going when I reach the outskirts of town. I’m nervous. I don’t do well in seaside havens with ice cream parlors and boat people and I have to slow down. These bald tires can’t handle the snow and the Buick sounds like Sloth from The Goonies.
The road is stronger than the Buick and the shops are all closed and the lights are out for the season. It’s as if the entire population of Little Compton is holed up in Tay-Tay’s mansion. But the animals are still on the loose. And by the time I notice the deer that’s bolting across the road and slam on the brakes, it’s too late. The Buick moans and rams the deer and we are one now, flesh and steel, a tornado car wreck spiraling across the road, into the trees and through the trees. I lose time. I lose my equilibrium and close my eyes and the smell of burnt rubber and flesh overtakes me. Everything. And then.
Nothing.
WHEN I wake up, there is only silence. The pain, then branches in my lap, blocking my view. But, miracles abound in the Buick: I am alive. My Figawi hat is on my head. And my phone is intact. I was only out for twenty minutes.
“Wow,” I say because it has to be said.
All I see are glass chips and bark and leaves. It’s as if a tree ate the Buick and for a second, I fear there is no escape. I bleed into my warm clothes but that is nothing new. I am blessed, again, because nothing in this car is electronic. I can unlock the dented door and fight my way out of this gloriously analog American-made beast. I fall into the red snow. Deer blood. My blood. Yet I am alive.
I check my e-mail; you haven’t tried me yet, but you will. I go to Google Maps and we really are destined, Beck. I am destined to be with you because my phone confirms that I am 234 feet due west of Peach Salinger’s home at 43 Plover’s Way.
But it’s a hard climb back up to the street. Something bad happened to every part of my body when I hit that deer. I lift my right foot and my left leg hums. I shift my weight to my right foot but then my right rib cage bites. I fall into the snow and I just let the coolness into my clothing. “Patience, Joe,” I say. “Patience.”
I crawl forward a few feet and notice two signs, partially obscured. One is a simple stop sign, universally understood. The other is prissier, on a white board:
HUCKIN’S NECK BEACH CLUB INC. NO TRESPASSING. MEMBERS ONLY. KEEP OFF ROCKS. NO JUMPING OR DIVING. NO LIFEGUARDS ON DUTY. SWIM AT OWN RISK.
Nature is on my side because these rules don’t apply in winter. A tiny security booth adjacent to the sign is very clearly closed for winter.
“All right,” I say and I go on, stronger than Celine Dion’s heart.
Like a soldier easing out of a foxhole, I stay low to the ground. My arms are not as fucked up as my legs and my midsection. I am fully sweating with teeth chattering and my right eye is a useless blob but my left eye is unscathed, functioning. But I must be there and I recalculate the distance on my phone: I am 224 feet away.
“Are you kidding me?” I say out loud. “I’ve only gone ten fucking feet?”
My mouth is dry and I stuff it with snow. At this rate, I will get to you next summer. I close my eyes. I can do anything. I can do anything, and you miss me and the hardest part will be this walk and you could call at any moment, you could. I dig my hands into the snowy dirt and I get some traction. I have to do a cheater’s push-up from my knees and I wince and I sting but I do it, Beck. I’m up. And I find a limp that works for me, a zombie sidestep, like I’m missing a conjoined twin. I check my phone and the blue dot is on top of the red dot.
I.
Am.
Here.