Albuquerque to San Bernardino would be a straight shot west across I-40. Barry decided to drive right through so we would reach Uncle Mort’s by morning. A rainbow welcomed us outside of Gallup, New Mexico, arced over the craggy red-brown cliffs. The sun, a setting fireball as we ate tuna from cans to avoid stopping. Nothing new on the news regarding us, except our story still took center stage. Steph and Jenny retreating into their nook. Steph trying to salvage Jenny’s hair with some clips. Barry and Mom, listening to “Everybody’s Talkin’” by Harry Nilsson up front. She’d stuck her feet out the side window, drying her painted toenails. He chugged coffee after coffee to keep himself alert. I leaned with my cheek against the window and wrote to Heidi.
Dear Heidi.
I crossed it out. Dear sounding stupid. What was I, forty-five years old?
Hey girl.
I crossed that out, too.
Heidi,
I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, and I’m sure the last few days have been horrible for you. I’m so sorry for what happened to Troy. And I’m sorry we got your family involved. I know the words I write can’t make up for what we did, and I don’t deserve for you to forgive me. The truth is, the Gimmelmans are a selfish fucking bunch.
We always have been. My dad, and it’s tough to even call him that anymore, because he hasn’t felt like a dad in a while, but he was a stockbroker and all about money. Our house, the things we owned, this was what became important. And I’m guilty for that, too. My Nintendo, the basketball I had signed by The Knicks, our big screen TV, a LaserDisc player, that was what mattered to me. I thought money would be something we always made, but I don’t like how we made it recently. It’s far from honest.
I know you saw that Troy wasn’t the only one who died in this last heist. My dad, Barry, he shot the guard that shot Troy. I don’t know if you were mad at that guard too, but he really isn’t to blame. He might have done his job wrong by firing at Troy before giving us a chance to lower our weapons, but the truth is it wouldn’t have mattered. Barry wouldn’t have lowered his gun for nothing. And the fact that he killed the guard over what amounted to some money is disgusting. The truth is I don’t want anything to do with this money. And I’m starting to think I don’t want anything to do with my parents anymore either.
I doubt you’ll even read this whole letter. You’ll probably rip it up and throw it away when you see who it’s from. But you should know that you were right all along. We were stupid to keep this up after the Boca heist. We were greedy, and now we’re paying for it. Or, well, Troy paid for it. And that’s really fucked up. But I have a bad feeling. It sits in my gut and hangs out there like I ate too much McDonald’s. This is gonna catch up with us. And you know what, it probably should. We don’t deserve to get away with it, not anymore, not after what we’ve done.
I did like you said, and started writing everything bad down. My sisters are starting to feel this way, too, so I’m hoping it can help us when we get caught. I know I’m responsible because I was the first one who stole, but that was just a couple of bucks from a convenience store. I did it to help my family because we were running real low on cash, and that’s never something we had to deal with before. I never expected it would come to this, even though it was exciting at first, especially because we were all really good at it, and it brought us together in a way we never had been before.
We’d never really been a close family. Everyone tended to do their own thing. And I didn’t realize how much that sucked until we began doing things together on this trip. Families are weird things. You’re stuck with these people without a say in it, and I know you probably feel really alone now with just your grandpa. I wish I could be there for you. I wish I could be your family. But I’m probably no good for you. You wouldn’t have done the things that I’ve done, and therefore, you should be with someone great who really takes care of you. I hope you find that. I hope you get out of Delray Beach someday, too, if that’s what you want. And I hope you can forgive me, even if you never tell me you do. I hope you forgive me because I’m not worth the time spent on being angry. You’re so wonderful and cool that you shouldn’t spend any time focused on me. So forgive me only because it’s the best thing you can do for yourself.
I’ll always think of the time we hung out as one of the best times of my life.
-Aaron Nicholas Gimmelman
I couldn’t mail it right away since we weren’t stopping. It would have to be done once we reached Uncle Mort’s without Barry knowing. Too much of a chance at giving away our location, but I didn’t care anymore. Let Heidi rat us out if it made her feel better. Would kinda be poetic justice.
When I finished writing, we were passing through Flagstaff. It was fully nighttime, and there were few other cars besides some semis on the road. Mom snoring up in her nook, Steph and Jenny asleep in the back. A few days ago, I would’ve used this as a time to get Barry’s vial from the glove compartment, but I didn’t want that shit anymore. If coke was something he liked, I wanted nothing to do with it, nothing that could make me similar to him. A hatred was bubbling. It festered in my stomach, looking at the back of his wild hair poking up over the seat. To hit him would feel so good, cause him pain like the pain he caused all of us.
As if he could sense my pulsating anger, his eyes clocked over to the rearview, made me jump in place. Through his glasses, they told me I better stay in line, remain loyal, not go rogue, ruin everything. When they glanced back at the road, I could breathe again and shut the sheet blocking off my area. I tried to sleep, quiet my spinning mind. But it wasn’t working. A lifetime of insomnia to look forward to, that would be my penance. I would accept that. It made me feel better to know my charge, since no verdict could ever be fair.
So I stayed flush against the window, watching the highway roll by as hours passed and the darkness turned a twinkling purple before the sun fizzled between two faraway mountains, and we drove through the Mojave Preserve. I had no clue that in a short time, we’d be driving back this way in an attempt to flee our pursuers, only for our lives to be shattered.
Right then, the Mojave exuded a whistling calm, the mountain breeze in my face, nature’s one last caress before the inevitable shitshow.