Andrew Klavan - The long way home

"You hungry?" she asked me.

I nodded. I was really touched she'd thought to bring me something. "I'm pretty much always hungry," I said.

She went back to her bag. Crouched down over it. She pulled out a plaid blanket and handed it to me. "So we don't have to sit in all this dust."

"Right."

I spread the blanket out on the floor. She went into her carryall again, meanwhile, and brought out sandwiches and apples and grapes, all neatly stored in plastic bags, plus some bottles of water.

We sat on the blanket together. The sight of the sandwiches made my mouth water. It had been days since I'd eaten anything decent, anything that hadn't come from a vending machine. Also, I was glad to have something to do, you know, something to look at besides her, something to occupy me so I wouldn't have to think of more stuff to say.

I ripped into the first sandwich-chicken and cheese with mayo on a fresh roll. The taste of it-all the freshness of it and the flavor-was pretty shocking after so many weeks of scrounging for whatever I could find. The sandwich seemed practically to explode in my mouth and the taste traveled all through me.

"Good," I said with my mouth full. "Really good. Really."

She smiled. She sat there and watched me eat. It felt like she was practically studying my face. When I stole glances at her, I could see her eyes glistening in the daylight that came in through the window. It made me feel funny to have her look at me that way-you know, as if she had been wanting to see me for a long time and now that I was here, she couldn't take her eyes off me. It made me feel good. In fact, I had to keep from getting a stupid-looking smile on my face. I forced it down, but it kept coming back. I finally hid it with another bite of the sandwich.

"Has it been terrible?" Beth said finally.

"Has what been terrible?"

"You know, having to run away all the time. Is it really bad?"

I shrugged. It had been a long time since anyone had asked me a question like that-a question about how I was feeling. Used to be, I'd hear it every day, practically every hour. I'd wake up and my mom would say, "How'd you sleep?" I'd go to school and my friends would say, "How's it going?" At night, at dinner, my dad would say, "How was school?" Sometimes it could even feel annoying, you know-like why does everybody have to ask me questions all the time?

But when it stops, when nobody asks-when nobody cares how your day was or how you slept or how it's going for you-then you miss it, I can tell you. You miss it a lot.

So when Beth asked, I suddenly wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to try to explain to her how it felt to have everything you cared about and loved suddenly vanish. I wanted to tell her what it was like to be on the road, hunted, day and night, with nowhere you could call home. I wanted her to know what it did to you to have the world think you were evil and to wonder sometimes yourself whether you were or not.

I wanted to tell her-but I couldn't find the words.

"I don't know," I said finally. "It's kind of lonely sometimes."

She nodded. "I think it must be. Must be scary too."

I shrugged again. She was right, of course. It was scary. It was scary all the time, every minute. But I didn't like to tell her that. "I guess," I said. "I guess it's kind of scary sometimes."

"I'd be scared," she said. "I'd be scared all the time. I am scared all the time."

"You are? Why? What are you scared about?"

"I'm scared for you, Charlie," she said, in a tone of voice that suggested it had maybe been kind of a stupid question. "I mean, I try not to think about it, but I can't help it. I think of you out there all alone with the police after you and I get so worried I…" Her eyes glistened even more. She didn't finish.

I tried to think of the right thing to say. "Don't be scared," was all I could come up with. "I mean, here I am, right? I'm okay. I'm gonna be okay."

"I know," she said hoarsely, trying to smile. "I know you are."

"I'm sorry, Beth. I'm sorry you have to worry like that."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault."

"I don't know whether it is or not."

"It's not."

"Maybe… but I'm sorry anyway. I'm sorry you have to worry. I'm sorry I can't be here to… you know, to keep you from worrying and make you feel better. And you know what I'm sorry about more than anything?"

She shook her head. She couldn't speak. She was trying too hard not to cry.

I told her, "I'm sorry I can't remember. Us, you know. I'm sorry I can't remember us."

She nodded. She managed to get the words out. "So am I. A lot."

"I try to. I try so hard. It's really frustrating. Sometimes it feels like… it's all still there, inside my brain, just out of reach. Like when you can't remember a word or the name of a song or something, but it's right on the tip of your tongue. It feels like that. And then sometimes… sometimes I have dreams. You know? Dreams about you and me. Just you and me walking together or talking or something. And then I wake up and… I don't know whether I was remembering something that really happened or if it was just a dream."

"That does sound frustrating."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Talking to Beth was kind of an amazing thing. The way she listened to you-it made you feel like you were the only person in the world, the only thing she was interested in or really cared about. I mean, I didn't want to complain too much. Mostly I didn't want to say anything that would make her worry even more than she already did. But it sure felt good to say these things to her, to tell her about all these things I'd been keeping inside me during all the weeks when I had no one to talk to.

"It's like that with a lot of stuff," I said. "All the stuff I can't remember. A whole year-it's just gone. Not just you and me but… how I got arrested. My trial. I can't even remember…"

The words stuck in my throat. Beth reached out and touched my hand gently. "What, Charlie?"

"I can't even remember if I'm guilty or not."

"What do you mean?"

"Alex. I can't even remember if I killed him."

"Oh, Charlie." Her hand closed over mine. "Of course you didn't. I know that. We all do."

Man, I have to say: it was hard not to cry when she said that. I would've rather the Homelanders stormed into the room just then and shot me dead before I let Beth see me cry, but it was hard not to. For a long time, I couldn't say anything at all.

Finally, I forced the words out. "The police… The jury… They all think I did it."

"Well, they're wrong, that's all. They've made a terrible mistake. I'm sure they didn't mean to. They were trying to get it right, but somehow things just got mixed up."

"And now there are these people. These terrorists. They think I'm one of them."

"Oh, Charlie, you have to know that's not true."

"I want to. I want to know it, Beth. So help me, I want to know it more than anything. I mean, I'm not trying to say I'm anybody special or Superman or anything like that, but… I always thought I was all right. You know? I thought I was a decent guy…"

"You are. Of course you are. You're more than that."

"Then why do they all…?" I lifted the last of the sandwich, but I didn't eat it. I couldn't. My throat felt so tight I knew I wouldn't be able to get it down. "I try to figure it out, but I can't. You know? It doesn't make any sense. If I'm really innocent, why would everyone say I was guilty? I feel like, if I could just remember what happened…"

"You will. You just have to keep trying. I'm sure you will."

I put the sandwich down. I reached into my fleece and brought out the papers I'd got in the library.

"It's why I came back. To see if I could piece it all together and figure it out. I mean, if I didn't kill Alex, someone else must've done it, right? The paper said it was someone he recognized, someone he knew. If it wasn't me, then who was it?"