Knowing the pain they keep alive. Feeding my sadness
and dismay. After all those silent years, my father disinherited me.
In his last will and testament, I do not exist.
   —Sheila Nickerson, Disappearance: A Map

KEV MACHT pushed open the door of the semi. He muttered thanks to the driver and swung himself and his blanket off the side of the cab. As soon as the door was closed, the engine started up again with a roar and the rig pulled around the 7-Eleven parking lot, headed back for the highway. Bits of dirt and gravel and old cans spun out from under the tires, a haze of exhaust drifted over neon signs for beer. Now Kev knew he was alone.

When Kev had started out in the morning, he hadn’t known how far away a phone booth would be. After walking for two hours, he’d finally hitched a ride with the truck driver. The truck driver was friendly—he gave Kev good advice about how to tweak the suspension on the ’Cuda. And since he’d recently started part-time work at A-1 Auto Parts, he could actually afford to buy a suspension. Someday.

Against the evening sky, the neon signs were faded and indistinct. The clouds were bright with a dusky glow. He glanced inside the store and saw an older clerk with dark skin. The cashier wore glasses and was balding—and he was staring at Kev through the window. There were two battered phone booths in the parking lot.

Kev pushed the Play button and a furious rush of guitars filled the world. Now he was glad that he’d brought the old blanket and his music. If it took this long to get here, he might be on the street all night before he got back to the Worthson garage.

Kev had already put his money into the phone and dialed the number when he realized that it was broken. Someone had yanked on the metal cord that connected the receiver to the box. The cable inside was splayed out in frayed bits of wire. Then, thoughtfully, they’d put the receiver back on the hook.

He threw the receiver across the booth and punched the button for his change.

He heard the 7-Eleven door swing open and catch. He glanced over to see the balding cashier regard him suspiciously. Kev glowered back. After a moment of looking at him across the empty parking lot, the man went back inside. Kev thought he probably already had his hand on a gun under the counter, just in case Kev were to come inside.

When Kev tried it, the phone in the second booth worked.

The voice on the other end cracked and gargled and hissed out of the depths. It was the same with every public phone in Bitterroot County. The antiquated trunk lines had been rotting since 1933. There was no public works money to replace them.

“I can’t hear you,” said his stepfather. “Are you calling from the Silver Valley?”

“Yeah,” shouted Kev. “I’m in Coeur d’Alene. And hey—I’m coming to Seattle! I want to stay with you. I’ve been working on a great car and—”

“Oh. Glad to hear it, but your mother doesn’t really want you around right now.”

There was a pause. Kev closed his hand and squeezed until the tattoo on the back shone against the white of his clenched fist. He did not say anything. His stepfather sighed and spoke again. “Look,” he said. “We’ve got some friends coming over for coffee in a little while. Is there anyway you could call back again later?”

“No,” said Kev. “I can’t do that.”

“Well, I’d really like to discuss this with you, but now is just not a good time. I mean, we haven’t seen these friends in a while—they’re leaving for a trip to Bali in a week. Do you remember Chip and Jen, from that trip on the lake in ’82? Did you know them?”

“No,” said Kev. “I didn’t know them.”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry.” His stepfather paused. “Anyway, where were we?”

In the background, even through the static and corrosion of the Silver Valley trunk line, he could hear his mother asking who was on the phone, her voice distant and buried.

“We were talking about me coming out there. Can I talk to my mom?”

There was a muffled sound, as if his stepfather had placed a hand over the phone. Then a muted conversation, and afterward his mother’s voice was gone from the room.

“No, look, I’m sorry, Kevin. Gloria is kind of busy. She’d just love to talk to you, but another time would be better. Is there anything you’d like to tell us? Can I ask if—”

“Sure—I’d like to tell you something,” blurted Kev. “I have a BMW and a yacht, and I live in a mansion by Lake Coeur d’Alene, and I’ve just been given a cabin for Christmas by my best friend. I’m going to Europe this year—Switzerland. And that car I told you about—I’m putting about fifteen thousand bucks into fixing it up, and then I’ll sell it for a million dollars.” He breathed heavily, gasping. “That’s what I’d like to tell you.”

His stepfather chuckled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Kevin, Kevin, we both know that’s not true. However much we might wish it.”

“Okay. But you’ve got all that already. Can’t you just share some of it with me?”

“Well, we did that, Kevin, and you just threw it away. See where that got us to?”

“You weren’t there. And it wasn’t yours to start with. Let me talk to my mom.”

“I’m not playing your game, Kevin. I’ve sent you enough money for now.”

“Let me talk to my mom.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.” His stepfather lowered his voice. “Gloria doesn’t want to play your games anymore either.”

“Man, lemme talk to her. I’ve got some problems here,” said Kev. “Look, the truth is I’m living in a garage at some guy’s house. I’m homeless, and I’m working on this car so I can friggin’ come to Seattle to see you guys. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Kevin. But the truth is that your mother and I have had it with your games, and your slacker friends.” His stepfather’s voice grew both quieter and more intense. “We don’t want you or your friends to come here. Do you understand? I don’t want you to come here. And she doesn’t want you to come here either.”

Kev felt something give way, a thing breaking inside him. He unclenched his hand, and felt the fingers ache with the release, saw the gouges left in his palm by his fingernails closed tight on the flesh. He caught himself gulping, unable to speak for a minute.

“I don’t have your address in Seattle anyway,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t know how to get to your house, you fuckin’ jerk. Let me talk to my mom.”

His stepfather caught his breath again, as if it were taking effort not to raise his voice. “Gloria has done more for you than you’ll ever understand—”

“Let me talk to her. Let me just talk to her.”

Then he could hear his mother’s voice in the background, and somehow he knew that she’d never left the room. He could hear them speaking to each other, the voices low.

Finally, his stepfather came back on the line. “Look,” he said with a sigh. “How much can we send you to just stay away? Will two hundred bucks do it? How about three hundred?”

Kev was kicking the phone booth to pieces when he heard the siren. He stopped then, but it was too late. Inside the store, he could see the cashier, dark eyes wide with fear, the phone still held in his hand. That damned cashier was still holding the phone when the car came to a screeching halt in the parking lot, almost on top of Kev’s feet, and two deputies boiled up out of it. It was only later, after they had him spread-eagled and fully searched, that they actually talked to him.

“You check the tattoos, Bill?” A deputy grabbed Kev’s hand firmly and held it up. “What kind of a freak draws a Nazi thing on his own hand?”

The second deputy was writing in a logbook. “Yeah, I got him. Tagged and noted.”

The first deputy continued. “You come out of Hayden Lake to bother us?” Kev didn’t say anything.

“Hey kid!” said the first deputy. “Did you come down from the Aryan Nations?”

“Yes,” said Kev. “I mean—no.”

The second deputy bent down so he could look in Kev’s face. “Which is it?”

“I didn’t,” said Kev. “I mean, not recently. I was only up there a little while. I grew up here, I’m from the Silver Valley. Born at Bitterroot Hospital.”

“Oh yeah?” said the first deputy. “What’s your name?”

“Kevin,” he admitted.

“You got a last name, Kev-In?” drawled the other one.

“Macht. I mean, Paulsen.”

“You sure about that last one? Paulsen your real name, son?”

Kev nodded, and looked at the ground.

“Stand up when an officer is talking to you,” said the second deputy, and Kev slowly got to his feet. Expertly, the deputy grabbed his arm and spun him around, snapping a pair of handcuffs on before Kev could find the energy to struggle. The rolled blanket dropped to the ground, along with the tape player.

“Hey, look at this stuff,” said the first deputy.

“Just check the name,” said the second one.

The first deputy took him by the arms and walked him back to the car. Then he pushed some buttons on the computer in the car, while holding Kev by the arm. The second one walked to the door of the store and stood there talking.

“Shit, the guy in there doesn’t want to press charges,” said the second deputy. “Can you get this—the guy says he feels sorry for you, or something. But we’ve got two broken phones here—that you may or may not have broken. What else have we got on you?”

“Where you living, Kevin?” said the first deputy. “Can we take you home?”

“You aren’t going to take me home,” snarled the boy.

The second deputy pushed at the boy’s knees with his nightstick. “Sorry we offered. Don’t worry—we won’t take you anywhere but jail,” he said. “You living on the street?”

Kev gasped as his knee unexpectedly went out from under him. “I got a job. You can’t mess with me like that!”

“We can mess with you anyway we want to. What kinda place would hire you?”

Kev didn’t speak. Then his other knee went. “Auto parts store,” he gasped. “A-1.”

“Right, sure,” said the second deputy. “But he didn’t answer our first question.”

“Where do you live?” said the first deputy. “Are you on the street?”

“No—I’m staying with a friend.”

“And what’s your friend’s name? Whose place is that?”

“It’s Matt’s place. Matt Worthson’s house.”

The second deputy laughed. “You are smoking something, kid! Matt Worthson is a lieutenant in the sheriff’s department. Worthson is letting you stay at his house?”

“In his garage. I’m a friend of his son’s—Doug’s friend.”

“Damn, I wouldn’t pick trash like you for a friend. Just look at you.”

The first deputy put the radio down. He turned from the car. “Well, so far he checks out. Kevin is from around here. He’s been pulled over before—no adult arrests though.”

The second deputy sneered. “No arrests? Or just no adult ones?”

“He’s in the database, but record was expunged. Musta been a juvie last time.”

“So you have a record,” said the second deputy. “What’d you do, little buddy?”

“I’m not your buddy,” said Kev.

“Whatever, kid,” said the first deputy. “Take it easy. We’re going to cut you loose. We’ll tell Matt to keep his eye on you, so you don’t beat up any more phone booths.”

“But you know . . .” The second deputy held up the blanket they’d taken from Kev. “There was that weird robbery at that clothesline a few weeks ago. Didn’t they lose some sort of blue quilt—something like this thing?”

The first deputy was loosening the cuffs on Kev. “I say we keep it. Even if it’s not the right blanket, they probably need a new one.”

The second deputy released Kev from the cuffs and put the tape player in his hands.

The deputy held on to it as Kev tried to take it from him. “What’s this?” he said.

“What?” Kev snarled.

The deputy reached out to the cross that hung in the hollow of the boy’s neck, fingering the shape of it. Kev jerked away as the deputy touched the soft wood.

“Wasn’t there a case recently—” The deputy looked over at his partner. “A cross like this . . . wasn’t something like this stolen off a body or something? I can’t remember.”

The second deputy shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“I’m sure there was—can’t remember which case. Where’d you get the cross, kid?”

“That’s my business.” Kev yanked the tape player out of the man’s hands. The headphones fell to the ground. “Dammit—give me my Walkman, my mom gave it to me!”

The deputy let go and turned to his partner. “Hey, didja hear? He has a mommy!”

Kev rubbed his wrists and turned toward the deputies. “Yeah, well, fuck you.”

The second deputy walked back to the car. “Sure, kid, fuck your mother too.”

“Lay the hell off, wouldja!” said Kev. “You know, the cops s’posed to grab the black fuckers! Here I get harassed just ’cause I’m white—’cause I’m a proud Aryan!”

The deputy opened his car door and glared at Kev. The second deputy tapped the cuffs on the roof and looked over at the cashier. “You got pulled in ’cause you were a jerk. If Mr. Pakistani here was willing to give a statement, we’d be booking you. Understand?”

Kev looked away from them.

“You’re gonna start walking now,” said the first deputy. “Get the hell out of here.”

With an insolent shuffle, Kev began to walk back toward the freeway.

At the on-ramp, Kev caught a semi with a Confederate flag screened across the front. “Fuckin’ cool buzz,” said the driver. “I stopped for you, man, ’cause I needed to see a white brother. You listen to the Reverend Butler on the radio, right? From the Nation?”

“Damn straight,” said Kev. But then there was nothing he had to say.

The driver waited a long time, and finally he started talking. “So I’ve been thinking about all these greasers comin’ in, the mongrels taking our jobs. What do you think about that? You’re from Hayden Lake, right, you got some of them wetbacks up there, right?”

“Ah fuck, man,” groaned Kev. “Just let me be, man. Give it up!”

“Well, dammit, son, do you care or don’t you?”

Kev stopped listening. Finally he realized the driver had stopped the truck. “You’re no proud white man! Get the hell out of here!” But Kev had already moved to the door. As he swung himself out of the cab, he could still hear the driver shouting at him. “Come on, motherfucker, stand up for the white man! You’re just a nigger lover!”

By the time he came to the street that he recognized, his legs ached from the walking. Something ached inside too. He went to the left side of the garage where the old hulk of the Barracuda waited for him in the shadows. In the darkness, he strained to see the rest of the car. Then he pulled out the keys and went to sleep in the backseat of the car, curled up under an oil-stained drop cloth.