Alex’s nerves had descended a couple of registers, from his chest down to his stomach and intestines. He sat with the Cadillac keys on his lap while Lester, now handcuffed and flanked by two cops, staggered his way to the van. There was a brief moment when the old man turned and nodded at Alex, as if to imply that everything was okay.
But Alex knew better. This was nearly as bad as things could get.
The female cop opened the door behind him and directed the dog to sniff out the entire area, including his present from Selma. “You’ll have to step out of the vehicle,” she said, her voice husky and false.
Alex peeked behind the driver’s seat to verify that his gift was still there. That was the only good thing about the day. Then he stood in front of the car and watched through the windshield as the dog scurried across the seats.
The cop opened the trunk, and the dog jumped right in. Alex could hear the familiar snapping of the old Samsonite latches. This whole thing was terrible, and it was bound to get worse. The situation was clear: In a matter of seconds, one of the cops would demand to see his license. With only a learner’s permit, he’d be nabbed as an illegal driver. The car would have to be impounded, and he’d be taken to some juvenile home until his mother arrived to claim him.
His wallet felt hot in his back pocket, like a grilled cheese sandwich straight off the burner. He didn’t dare touch it. Except for his wobbling knees, he remained motionless, waiting for the inevitable.
“Is this yours?” the Hispanic cop asked, pointing to the green duffel bag.
“Yeah,” Alex said.
The man tossed it back into the trunk. Meanwhile the big trooper carried Lester’s suitcase to the van as if it was nothing but a box of Kleenex. Alex looked through the van’s set of back windows, but all he could see was Lester’s hand sticking up against the crisscross of the dog’s cage. Old man was probably lying down.
On his trip back from the van, the trooper said, “Looks like you’re on your own, Alex. You be sure to drive safely.” He went around back and slammed the trunk.
Alex lowered himself into the driver’s seat, momentarily forgetting how to start the engine. He may have even forgotten how to drive, and he wasn’t about to put himself under the scrutiny of the mighty trooper. So he grabbed a map and waited it out.
The van pulled away first. The trooper followed.
Alex was alone, still in shock. There were actually two shocks mixed together. First was Lester’s arrest, which was partially Alex’s fault. The second was that no one among that brain trust of law enforcement had bothered to check his license.
Until now, he had been too nervous to consider what to do next. The only certainty was that he couldn’t just sit there. Another cop would come—a savvier cop—who would gladly arrest him for unlawful use of a motorized vehicle. He started the engine and brought the Cadillac to traffic speed. He was officially breaking the law. The map of the Southeastern States lay on the passenger seat. It would be simple enough to follow the yellow highlighted route all the way up to New York. That’s what Lester had told him to do. Alex could keep his speed down and even drive through the night.
Meanwhile, Lester would be wasting away in some jail cell. Nothing could be more depressing, maybe not even death.
Alex pulled into a rest area and studied the map. Brunswick was way over on the opposite corner of the state, about as far as you could travel and still be in Georgia. And there was no direct route. But a germinating feeling told him he could make it. He could continue north until he reached the southern outskirts of Atlanta, go southeast on I-75 then due east on I-16 all the way to Savannah. For the last leg, he’d take I-95 south to Brunswick.
But before any of that he needed snacks, and he needed a bathroom. He found an open stall and let out a nerve-wracked storm of gas and diarrhea. When he was all done, he felt renewed. As if here, in this very time and location, was the passing of the Old Alex and the start of a new one. And this New Alex saw himself as responsible. People could count on him to do what was right. Getting Lester out of jail would be his first big mission.
At the vending machines he realized how little there was for the newly health-conscious. But he had to get something. For a total of eight dollars, he purchased a bottle of Gatorade, a bottle of water, two bags of trail mix and a granola bar. He plopped the items into the center console and started the engine.
THE ROUTE was simple enough, but the map hadn’t warned him that he was about to be bogged down by heavy traffic and a disorienting tangle of on and off ramps. He wasn’t even going into Atlanta, just the outer suburbs by the airport. Which proved to be interstate mayhem. As traffic slowed to a standstill, he cursed his navigational stupidity.
He thought of the congestion-free trip from Albany to Fort Lauderdale and how Lester had smartly routed them away from major cities. By taking I-81 instead of I-95, they had missed all of Metro New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, DC. If those cities were anything like Atlanta, the trip would have taken a week.
There was only half a mile before his exit and three lanes to cut across, but traffic had settled into walking speed, and the gaps between vehicles were almost nonexistent. A golf cart might squeeze through, not a Cadillac Deville. He flipped on his blinker, as if that mattered. In the midst of this mess, a passenger jet shot across his visual field—so close he could count the five lines on the US Airways logo flag.
Normally, in a situation like this, he would have imagined his father stepping in with navigational guidance. As Alex lunged into the space between two tractor trailers, he might’ve been tempted to bring his father in on the maneuver. The man’s skillful eyes would see the road through Alex’s eyes…and so on.
But the game lost its appeal on the day Alex met his father in the flesh. “It was stupid anyway,” he said to the truck in front of him. “I did all those things on my own. You were never there. Never!”
Something about talking out loud in the air-tight cabin of the car felt gratifying. Besides, it was practically his car. He could do whatever the hell he wanted. And he wanted to talk. Specifically, he wanted to talk to his father. “You son of a bitch,” he said. The words felt raw and true.
“You could’ve picked up the damn phone, you chicken shit. You could have visited too. But no, not you. You were too scared. You were too ashamed. You were too caught up in your own little life. You barely moved a muscle for me, except to write some letters…which I never got!”
At this point, he could have easily turned the anger toward his mother. But he decided to keep them separate—one battle at a time.
There must have been a dozen or so cars passing in the left lane. Some people looked at him, but Alex kept talking as if there was a Bluetooth in his ear. That was one of the great things about modern technology—you could talk to yourself and not appear crazy.
He felt an easing of stress as he broke away from the gridlock. Metro Atlanta faded into a bad memory. He went back to slamming his father. “I hope you made a big fancy breakfast,” he said. “I hope you waited and waited for me. I hope you stared at your diamond-studded watch and waited.”
A new feeling emerged unexpectedly from under the anger.
“You waited, just like I always waited.” It was too much to contain. “And I didn’t show up, just like you never showed up.” Tears streamed down his face.
“I hope you missed me,” he managed to say. Then his final words of truth: “Because I missed you.”
It occurred to him that it didn’t really matter that his father was gay. What mattered was the same thing that had always mattered. For all those years, the man was never there.