John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Once on the road, Warren tuned his car radio to NewsTalk 990 for The Bitch. He wondered if Nathan would be brazen enough to call a second time. As soon as the digital display on the radio locked onto 990, he heard the boy’s voice. He noted with vicarious pleasure that a day of freedom had greatly lifted Nathan’s spirits. The boy was gleefully telling the story of how he had evaded a roadblock the night before, though he was careful not to give the location. Smart kid, Warren thought, but if you keep talking, you’re going to tell me something that I can use.

And when that moment came, Warren admitted, he was going to have to push himself hard to put the information to use. Among the many feelings he had dissected and analyzed last night on the front porch was one that he had not yet had to confront in a meaningful way. Deep in his heart, Warren hoped Nathan would get away. Whatever doubts he had harbored on the issue were washed away by his conversation with Aces. That talk in the empty classroom of the JDC reinforced in Warren’s mind two undeniable truths: First, the juvenile court system created criminals, it did not reform them, and second, Nathan was not a danger to society.

Without a doubt, he was a killer—he had said so himself. But he was no murderer.

“If you get away, what are you going to do?” asked Nadine from Pleasantville, New Jersey.

Nathan used his thumb to pick the dirt from under a toenail as he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he answered at length, as honestly as he could. “I guess I’ll just start over.”

“But how can you do that?” Nadine pushed. “You’re a celebrity now. Everyone knows what you look like. Everyone’s going to be watching for you.”

It was a very good point, Nathan thought, but another one on which he couldn’t afford to dwell. “If I’m such a celebrity, and if people want to help, maybe they’ll just look the other way for a while.” And not shoot their mouths off like the Nicholsons, he didn’t say.

“Thank you, Nadine,” The Bitch said, moving on. “Frank from Coronado, California, you’re on the air with The Bitch and Nathan the Kid.”

“Hi, Bitch. Hi, Nathan,” Frank said. “Great show today:’ “Thank you,” Denise said.

“Nathan, yesterday you told us that your mom died when you were a baby and that you were raised by your dad, but then you wouldn’t talk about him. What happened to him?”

Nathan took a deep breath before he answered. Thinking about these things was so much harder yesterday. Today, he felt calm, collected, like he could talk without breaking down in tears. “He was killed in a car wreck when I was ten,” he answered clearly.

“What happened?”

“You mean in the car wreck?”

“Yeah. I mean, did he hit a tree, another car or what?”

“Frank, I’m ashamed of you,” Denise scolded. “Don’t you think the kid has enough on his mind without dredging up more bad memories?” She said it because it was the appropriate thing to say. In her heart, she hoped he’d answer.

“That’s okay,” Nathan said agreeably, fulfilling Denise’s wish. “I don’t mind. Not today, anyway. He was crossing some railroad tracks—not the kind with lights and gates and stuff, but the unmarked kind—when he got hit by the train. The doctor told me he was killed right away.”

“So how did you find out?” Frank persisted. “Did the police come to your door or what?” This line of questioning made Denise nervous. Her hand remained poised over the dump button in case she had to get rid of Frank in a hurry.

“No,” Nathan explained, “I was staying over at my best friend Jacob Protsky’s house that night. They’re our next-door neighbors. I guess the police told them, and then Jacob’s dad told me. It was pretty sad.” Like so many of the images that played on the movie screen of his mind, this one was as vivid as it could be. They waited until he awoke that morning to break the news, and he remembered how Mr. Protsky cried harder than he did. He remembered that he stayed with the Protskys through the funeral, until Uncle Mark finally sobered up enough to come pick him up and take him to his hive.

You remember to give us a call if you need anything, Nathan remembered Mrs. Protsky telling him as she gave him a hug, big tears balanced on her lids.

Then the memories turned bitter as he remembered calling her from a pay phone after the first belt-licking, begging her to take him back as blood trickled down the back of his legs under his jeans. He remembered how cold and flat her voice was as she ordered him to stop calling them. You have a new life now, Nathan, she had said. We can’t be a part of it anymore.

“You also implied yesterday that you were abused…”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Nathan said matter-of-factly.

“Good,” Denise said, stabbing the dump button. “Neither do I. Sometimes people just don’t know when to quit. I think Frank was one of those people.”

“My dad was the nicest guy in the world,” Nathan announced. “I’m sure he was, honey,” Denise said soothingly. “And the reason I’m sure is because I think he raised a pretty nice son.” “Thanks,” Nathan said warmly, “but there’s lots of folks who don’t think much of me at all.”

“Well, what do they know?”

Nathan smiled and stretched his back. “Um, ma’am? I mean B-Bitch?”

Denise laughed heartily at Nathan’s continued discomfort with her name. “Tell you what, Nathan,” she said. “Because we’re such buddies now, and I want to make you as comfortable as I can, I’m gonna let you call me Denise, okay?”

Nathan sighed audibly, genuinely relieved. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Sure. But to my other listeners, I warn you. Unless you’re a runaway with as cute a voice as Nathan’s, don’t you go trying to call me by my real name. Now, sweetie, what can I do for you?”

“If I ask you a question, will you promise to give me an honest answer?”

Denise shot a look to Enrique, who just shrugged, as usual. “Sure,” she said.

“Even if you think your honest answer would make me feel bad?”

“Okay.”

Nathan took another deep breath. The answer to the question he was about to ask was important to him, but he didn’t know why. He was far from certain that he even wanted to hear it. Pushing his doubts aside, he asked, “I know that if I was just some kid, you’d never put me on the radio. But if I did get through, would you still like me, even if I didn’t make your ratings go up?”

Denise thought for a moment before answering, then went to commercials so she could think some more. When they came back, she still wasn’t ready, but she owed him an answer.

“Nathan, I can’t deny that your calls have been good to my show. For example, I know that I’d have never been invited on Good Morning America if it weren’t for your phone call. You remember yourself that I didn’t believe a word you said at the beginning of yesterday’s call. But I’ve gotta tell you, there is something about your voice and your personality that is really very charming, and your situation is truly heart-wrenching. As a mother, I want to help you, just as most of our listeners would come to your aid however possible. So, yes, Nathan, I think I can honestly say that I would like you even if you made our ratings go down. And if you knew me better, you’d know that that’s a whole lot of liking.”

Her answer made Nathan smile; made him feel warm in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It had been two years since anyone had been kind to him, two years since anyone had clapped him on the back or given him a hug. For the first ten years of his life, he’d never had to worry about being tough or being brave, and the thought of fighting other people for the very essentials of life-food and rest or even a place to sit unmolested—had never entered his mind for even an instant. Ever since that train had sheared away everything that was good and kind, Nathan’s life had been one continuous fight, first with Uncle Mark, then with the assholes at the JDC, and now with hundreds of cops. The stakes were always the same, always his very survival. He longed for the times when his biggest worries centered on where he’d be assigned on the soccer field or whether or not he’d get an A on his spelling test.