65. Anger and Goose Bumps

I eventually ride my bike home after we agree to meet up later.

There’s something else she wants to show me.

As if she hasn’t shown me enough.

I keep thinking of the gun I found in my bedroom closet, of the words my mother told the group at school. Telling them I would never use a handgun. Ever.

I thought that too. I believed I wouldn’t.

But now I’m having a change of heart.

I’m relieved to find Mom home and awake. She doesn’t ask where I’ve been. The small talk I make with her over breakfast is just that.

I spend the morning doing some rearranging in my room.

First off, I hide the handgun in a secure place. I put it under the bottom of my desk drawers in a place that can only be retrieved by lifting the heavy wooden desk up. Next I check out the room to see if I find anything else strange or interesting. I’m going through Uncle Robert’s old clothes when I’m startled by Mom calling up to me that I have a phone call.

I run down to get it, thinking that it’s Jocelyn.

“Hey, man, you busy right now?”

It’s surprising to hear Ray Spencer’s voice on the other end. It takes me a second to even place it.

“No.”

“Awesome. Hey—just wanted to tell you about another party tonight.”

“Okay.”

He goes into detail about his friend having the party and gives me directions. I act like I’m paying attention and tell him I’ll definitely stop by, but I already have plans of my own.

Of course I can’t tell him that.

I can’t tell anybody.

“Thanks for the call.”

A part of me wonders if there’s any coincidence.

I don’t trust anybody.

“Make sure you come, man. It’ll be good for you.”

“Okay,” I tell him.

When I hang up, I walk to my deck and look outside.

Why do I keep getting this feeling that we’re being watched?

I don’t know who or from where, but I know I’m not entirely crazy.

Something’s going on here.

I need to figure out exactly what so I can help Jocelyn.

It’s five and I’m heading out when I see Mom on the couch, still in sweatpants and a T-shirt, looking just like she did when she got out of bed. She holds a glass of wine; the bottle sits on the table.

“You going out?”

She looks and sounds a little too friendly, a little too relaxed.

“Yeah. Probably going to a party tonight.”

“How are you getting there?”

“I’m riding my bike into town.”

“Okay.”

I stand there, watching whatever’s on television for a few minutes. “You going to be fine?”

“Of course,” she says.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

On my bike ride into town I wonder if things will ever be the same for her. The divorce was one thing, but my mom had a whole life back in Illinois. Other moms and friends she hung out with. A whole social life. Splintered and sunk so easily.

I feel a bit guilty leaving her behind, but I want to see Jocelyn. If there’s an opportunity, I’ll take it.

We just have to see each other in private.

I wish I could see my dad again to tell him what a mess he made, tell him that he should be there for Mom and that she shouldn’t have to be working and living someone else’s life. There’s nothing here for her. At least I’ve found something. But Mom—she hasn’t found anything, and it doesn’t look like she will anytime soon.

The anger builds inside as I enter the main road of Solitary.

Anger toward Dad, toward what he did to us. Anger toward who he chose instead.

This all goes away when I see the figure coming out of the convenience store. Pastor Jeremiah Marsh.

He smiles in a strange, creepy kind of way. For some reason it makes my skin crawl.

“Hello, Chris.”

I greet him and stop the bike at the edge of the sidewalk.

“Need to have you come back to church sometime.”

“Sure,” I say just to say it.

“You need to bring your mother, too.”

“Okay.”

“That a for-sure thing?”

“Well, I don’t know—I’ll have to check it out with my mom. She works a lot.”

“Chris?” The voice sounds like someone on the radio.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Yeah, okay.”

The narrow eyes study me from behind the glasses, his mouth revealing a mousy smile.

“There’s enough love for everybody,” the pastor says. “You just have to know where to find it.”

I nod, not having a clue what else to say.

There’s enough crazy, too, so sell that somewhere else.

“You have a good day, young man. Take good care of yourself.”

Why is it that every single person I talk to seems to threaten me?

Is it just me?

Am I the crazy one?

I say goodbye and pedal faster down the main road.

I can’t shake the goose bumps that cover me.

And the feeling that the guy I’m pedaling away from is worthy of them.