Chapter Two

Truman held his hand up to his eyes to shield them from the sun as he watched for his mother’s car—a rusting Dodge Neon that was older than he was. Patsy called it “Herman,” although Truman had no idea why. Truman would hear its grumbling muffler before he actually saw the car. But right now, seeing the car was the most welcome sight Truman could imagine.

He tried to hold it together, the tears and the sobs inside threatening to break free like an itch needing to be scratched.

He closed his eyes with a kind of relief as he saw the little gray car coming down the street, a plume of exhaust belching out of its back end. The car swung rapidly to the curb, front wheels going up on it, and screeched to a stop right in front of Truman.

He was used to his mother’s driving. He rushed to get in the car, ignoring the whine it made when he opened the passenger door.

His mother sat across from him, looking glamorous as always. Today Patsy had on dark jeans, a blue lace crop top, and strappy rhinestone sandals that matched her dangling earrings. Her dyed-black hair hung in loose curls to her shoulders. Truman thought she could waltz right into the school and fit in perfectly with the other teenage girls—no problem—even though Patsy was the ripe old age of thirty-one.

All his life, it had just been the two of them against the world. Truman didn’t know who his father was and, in darker moments, figured Patsy didn’t either. She took her hand off the shifter and looked over with concern.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

Truman had never been able to keep a secret from Patsy. He sniffed once and said, “How’d you know?”

She touched his cheek, which had the paradoxical effect of making Truman want to both flinch and to bask in the warmth and comfort of her hand.

“Honey, that sad face is lower than a snake’s belly.”

“We were at an assembly, and I dropped my books and paper, and—” He could barely go on, getting his humiliation out in fits and starts between gasps for breath. He lowered his head and released the real sobs he’d been holding in since the kids had been so mean to him in the gym. His shoulders shook. His eyes burned. His nose ran. He felt like a baby, and at the same time experienced relief at finally letting his grief go. The worst part, he thought, was that jock who had tripped him telling everyone over and over to kick his stuff. And they all did what he said. And thought it was hysterical!

Patsy had the sense to drive away from the school as Truman sobbed into his hands. He felt like there was a tennis ball in his throat. He just wanted to get home, where he could curl up in bed with his dog at his side. The dog, a mix of bulldog and dachshund that everyone but Truman thought was hideous, was named Odd Thomas, or Odd for short, after a character from a series of Dean Koontz books that Truman adored. The name, though, fit the mutt.

Patsy also had the sense not to say a word until they pulled up in front of their house, a little two-bedroom cottage sided with some kind of tarpaper that was supposed to look like brick but just looked like shit. The front porch appeared as though it could fall off at any time. But Truman never complained—he knew Patsy was providing the best home she could for the two of them on her waitress’s salary and tips.

She put a gentle hand on his shoulder that felt as good as a hug.

Truman, able to speak at last, said, “And don’t say I shouldn’t have worn this shirt to school! You bought it for me!”

“I wasn’t gonna say that, sweetie. I think it’s a cute shirt, and you have every right to wear it.”

Truman should have known. His mother had found the shirt at Goodwill last month. Truman had thought how lucky he was to have a mom like Patsy when she brought it home to him. It was a kind of tribute to Patsy that he had worn it today. He knew he’d probably catch shit for it, but as Patsy always told him, there was no shame in being who he was. If someone had a problem with it, the problem was theirs, not his.

It all sounded good when they were curled up in front of the TV watching Grey’s Anatomy together or something, but in the real world? Truman was not only gay, he was a very sensitive boy whose feelings were easily crushed. What was he supposed to do with that?

“Come on. I brought home some fries and gravy from the diner, and if they get too cold, they’re gonna taste like crap.” Patsy got out of the car and waited for him to follow.

Truman wanted to simply dash from the car and hole up in his room with Odd, but he knew Patsy wouldn’t leave him alone. He loved and hated her for it.

So he shuffled in behind his mother, snuffling and rubbing at his burning eyes. Odd jumped off the couch and ran up to him. Truman stooped and let the dog lick his face hungrily. Truman wasn’t kidding himself—he knew the dog’s extra kisses weren’t meant to be a sign of joy at his homecoming or a comfort, but simply a way to taste the saltiness that was so delicious on Truman’s skin.

Truman endured the facial tongue bath for several seconds, then scratched Odd behind the ear and patted him on the head.

“I’ll go in and heat these up and make us some burgers while you run him out, okay?” Patsy smiled and nodded toward the leash hanging on a hook by the door.

Truman set his school stuff down on the table and headed out with the dog.

“Don’t be long,” Patsy called after him.

Outside, it still felt like summer. The quality of light, so bright, promised forever day. The breezes were still warm. And those clouds, puffy cotton-ball affairs, seemed painted on the bright blue sky. Insect life hummed as a soundtrack.

Odd urged him on, down toward the banks of the Ohio River where he was happiest. Truman was happy there too. The river was muddy brown and smelled fishy, but the low-hanging trees, willows and maples mostly, shielded Truman from the world, made him feel blissfully alone. And alone was not such a bad thing to be when the world seemed to take every opportunity to kick him in the teeth.

Truman released Odd from his leash and let him run on the riverbank, sniffing at the detritus the river had thrown up. There were old tires, tree branches, cans, and other stuff so worn down by the water it was impossible to identify. Truman sat on a log while the dog splashed at the water’s edge.

Maybe Patsy would say he could just stay home from high school. Was fourteen too young to drop out? Or—wait—maybe she could homeschool him? Right! Like she had extra hours on her hands for that.

Truman stood and skipped a rock across the water’s surface, wondering how it would feel to just walk into the brown current until it swallowed him up and carried him away, erasing all his woes. He imagined the cool green surrounding him, his blond hair flowing in the current, those last final bubbles from his nose and mouth ascending toward the sunlight above the water…

But then he thought of his mother. He could imagine her grief, her utter devastation if he was gone. She’d be alone. He couldn’t do that to her.

He sighed.

He trudged home, knowing what Patsy would say—how he had to be strong, how he had to be proud of who he was and not take shit from anyone. He’d heard the same speech a thousand times over the course of his short and sissified life. It was cool that his mom was so in his corner, that she was so accepting, but sometimes Truman just wished he wasn’t one of the misfit toys, that he was just a normal boy, playing Little League or whatever it was that normal boys did. One of the guys. His mother would tell him that what he wished for was to be common, to be unremarkable, and that someday he’d be glad he was different. It was easy for her to say, or at least so he thought, since she was beautiful, and the worst she had to deal with was being hit on by the truckers and traveling salesmen who came into the diner.

As he neared the porch, he called for Odd to come and, when he did, squatted down to reattach the leash to his collar. Patsy didn’t allow the dog to roam free outside. She said it was because she was afraid he’d run away.

Truman wondered if it was really Odd Thomas she feared running away.

He turned and faced the house. Through the screen door, he could hear and smell the ground beef sizzling in its cast-iron skillet and could smell the brown gravy as it surely bubbled on the stove, and the aromas made him, surprisingly, hungry.

Home was a good place.

And tomorrow was another day. Maybe things would be different.

“Yeah, right,” he whispered to Odd as he followed him through the door.