“Who did?”
“Nobody. He’s fine.” As I said it, I reached into my pocket, found the smoothness of the Swiss Army knife, and thrust it out toward Rom.
He stepped back. “What the—”
It was the one he’d given me for Christmas, shiny and red. All the blades were tucked in—but maybe he didn’t see that. Maybe the memory of me kneeing him in the chest was too recent. He laced his fingers over the top of his head, and I could see the scraggly hair under his arms through the gaping sleeves of his T-shirt. After a moment, he let his arms fall to his sides. “Whatever. Keep it.” He shook out a breath. He slid his hands into his pockets. “Keep it, Fool Scout.”
I found myself thinking of that church lady as I waited to board the bus. Heaven and hell are ways of thinking. Death is just the false belief that anything could ever end. I lingered till the last minute in the waiting area near a blind homeless man on his cardboard island—reluctant to get on, reluctant to climb the steep stairs onto the coach. It’s not what you do but what you think that matters. I didn’t want to board, but once I was on the bus I saw the windows were unexpectedly tall and wide, tinted against the bright morning sun, and I had the two-seat row to myself. The coach slid effortlessly through city traffic. It glided around the cloverleaf and onto the highway, passing even the semis going downhill. As the bus angled north, as we left the city behind, I watched the leaves on the trees through the window go from deep green to pale mint to nothing. I watched snow appear in banks on the roadsides again, and somewhere along the way—despite myself—I started to feel a sleepy, sweet, intoxicating calm. Perhaps it had to do with the speed and height of the bus, the feeling of soaring over the highway and going fast enough to kill somebody. Speed is one kind of magic. I’ve always felt that. But the wash of calm also came from seeing the lakes frozen over again at the shorelines, patches of bluish snow on the ground, black fields gone white and empty. After a few hours, I started seeing fish huts rise up from the lakes in compact, exact little cities. I could see crows circling the air above looking for scraps.
It came to me near Bemidji. We’d slowed for some teenagers crossing the road at a light, girls in huge puffy coats. How strange it must have been to move to a frigid place like this for the first time in middle age, to arrive from California in winter. But to him it must have seemed so forgiving at first. All the teenagers—all the girls—clomping through town in boots, in heavy wool sweaters and jackets. Everything up till then wouldn’t count. All those pictures wouldn’t count. It’s not what you think but what you do that matters. I waited for Whitewood to appear over the next ridge, and the next, and then a new thought came to me. It came all at once: those pictures had been giftwrapped, purposely left below the sink for someone to find. To find and find out. That he’d wanted it to happen. It started to snow. Before we reached Whitewood, snow was blanketing the road. It happened so fast it was startling. Blacktop, yellow lines, median—all gone within minutes. I felt the disconnected parts of my brain snap piece by piece into place as fresh wet flakes flashed down outside. As the bus fishtailed and everybody gasped. As the wheels found traction and we barreled on.
21
NO, I DIDN’T THINK TO CALL 911. I admitted this on the stand. It did not occur to me to use the cell phone, or to go to my parents’ house, or to take the bike into town. I didn’t think about how it would have been faster to flag someone down on the road or go to the information booth at the National Forest Campground. I said: I didn’t really have a plan. I said: I don’t really know what I was thinking. When I told Patra I’d get the Tylenol that morning, I testified, I just put on my shoes and opened the door.