Trent Reedy - Divided We Fall

“But what if—”

“If it drags on longer, I’ll look online for a place for you to stay. I’ll take out a loan and buy you an RV. Something.”

“You’re only seventeen, Danny. They’re not going to loan you—”

“Then I’ll have Schmidty take out the loan for me. I’ll take care of you, Mom. I promise. Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure you’re okay.” There was silence on the line for a long time. “Mom?”

“You’re a good boy, Danny,” she said sadly. “Well, a man really. I don’t know when you stopped being a boy, but I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

I talked to Mom a little longer, trying to get her mind off the fact that she couldn’t come home, trying to keep her calm. Eventually, after we agreed to check in every day, I tapped out of the call.

Downstairs, the earlier party mood had vanished. JoBell’s dad had insisted she come home right away, but she had argued that she needed to have one last dinner with her friends. Her dad gave in, but he got in touch with everyone else’s folks, and he promised to check up on the rest of us from time to time. Sweeney’s folks didn’t seem as worried as he thought they should be. They seemed to think it was like a longer vacation. His dad let him know how to tap certain emergency funds he had set aside. Becca’s parents worried about their farm and wanted to make sure she’d be able to continue to take care of the cattle, but they seemed reassured when we all promised to help her.

Cal surprised me. He wiped his eyes, turning away from us so we couldn’t see.

“What is it, Cal?” JoBell asked, sitting down beside him and putting her hand on his shoulder.

“My old man,” he said quietly. “He’s out on the road. On the way back from a lumber haul to Minneapolis.” The last part of his sentence sounded a little choked.

“I’m sorry,” JoBell said.

“Even if he can’t get back home,” I said, “his rig has a big sleeper. He can keep trucking. He can still make money. When this is all over, he can—”

Cal faced us. His eyes were red and watery, but he was smiling. “He was calling from the parking lot of the Lookout Pass resort, right inside the state line. He said the Montana Highway Patrol closed the border about two minutes after he crossed into Idaho.” He held up a fist in front of his chest. “Good old Dad. Always brings the rig home right on time.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “Oh hell, give me another beer.”

I laughed as I handed him another round. Cal was so big and tough that I sometimes forgot there was more to the guy than partying and busting heads in football. His old man was a real a-man-needs-to-take-care-of-himself type guy, and he left Cal on his own a lot while on trucking runs, so I was happy he’d be able to make it home now.

Later we gathered at the table to enjoy Becca’s lasagna and the Wild Moose beer. Becca served us each a big square, and then sat down with her own. Cal grabbed his fork, stabbed right into it, and was about to take a huge bite when Becca held up a hand.

“Wait a second,” she said. “How ’bout we say grace first?”

“What?” Cal said with the steaming mass of cheese and pasta in front of his open mouth. “Oh yeah.”

We all bowed our heads. Becca led the prayer. “Lord, thank you for this food we are about to eat. Please help us and help our parents as we go through this difficult time. Thank you, Lord, for letting the five of us be together tonight. Thank you for this friendship. Amen.”

“Amen,” we all said.

I reached out for JoBell’s hand and she squeezed mine. I looked at Sweeney, who took a drink. Cal had stuffed down that huge bite of very hot lasagna and was holding his mouth open, breathing heavy, trying to avoid burning his mouth. Becca laughed at him, and then her eyes met mine, and she flashed the warmest, kindest smile I’d seen in a long time.

Becca was right. We should be grateful to all be together. Silently, I thanked God for my friends. That night, though, they felt like more than that. Closer than that. More like family.

“I love you guys,” I said.

“Oh, Danny.” Sweeney spoke in a high-pitched voice and dabbed a napkin to the corner of his eyes in big, exaggerated movements. “That’s sooooo sweet!”

JoBell laughed until her face was red. “That’s what you get for trying to get mushy around these lunkheads.”

“Hey,” Cal mumbled with his mouth full. “Ahm na a lunhea.”

I pointed my fork at Sweeney. “Nobody likes you very much.”

He held his beer up to me in a mock toast.

Glass shattered in the living room. We heard a thud on the floor and squealing tires and a horn honking from outside. My fork clattered to my plate and I was up and sprinting toward the front of the house.

“Danny, wait!” JoBell yelled. “It could be dangerous.”

I was glad I had my shoes on, because the living room floor was covered in glass. I ran out the front door, jumped off the porch, and bolted to the street as fast as I could, but I only caught a glimpse of the taillights of a car as it whipped around the corner down the block.

I stood in the middle of the street, marveling in the quiet. Most of the media circus was gone. There were only three news vans and maybe about a dozen reporters or camera people. They’d finally found a bigger story to go after.

I heard a camera click, and I spun around to face one of the last reporters in America who was not covering the blockade right now. He started snapping photos of me in front of my busted front window.

“Thanks for warning me,” I shouted at him. “You get a picture of that guy for the news?”

The prick gave me the thumbs-up and then went back to taking pictures of me. Others joined in, rolling video and shooting photos.

“I know this is a stressful time,” said a woman, “but could I ask you a few questions? Getting your side of the story out might help people understand you better. It might prevent stuff like this from happening in the future.”

Cal and Sweeney were right behind me. “You see the license plates?” Sweeney asked.

“Nope,” I said. The girls were looking out through the spiderweb of cracks in the front window with a two-inch hole in the middle. “Nice job the governor’s extra security is doing, huh?”

Cal stepped up to the first photographer to shoot pictures that night, a skinny guy maybe in his early thirties. Cal’s upper arm looked about as big as the reporter’s waist. “Cool comm,” Cal said. The reporter took a few steps back, but Cal grabbed the comm out of his hands. “Where’s the pics? They go up to your cloud? Pull ’em up!”

“Take it easy,” said the reporter.

“Cal, knock it off,” I said.

Cal held the comm out in his left hand and cocked his big right fist back. “Pull up the photos!”

Other cameras were rolling, getting video of the whole thing. The footage would make Cal look like a monster, and the press would have a field day with that.

With shaking hands, the man did what he said.

“That’s the first smart thing you’ve done.” Cal tapped the screen a couple times. “Dumb bastard has no pics of the car or the rock throwers or anything.” He fiddled with the screen more. “There. All the pictures of me and my friends deleted. And in case this is one of those weird old-fashioned comms with a hard drive and you have any more copies saved to it—”

“Cal, no!” Sweeney shouted as he and I ran to stop Cal from spiking the comm on the street.

“What?” Cal said. “We can’t keep letting them—”

“This isn’t helping me.” I took the reporter’s comm from Cal and handed it back to its owner. “They’re just going to make some terrible distorted story out of all this.”